


Exsanguination

by Shi_Toyu



Series: Blood and Blonde [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Case Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Potions, Secret Identity, Summoning Circles, Vampires, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shi_Toyu/pseuds/Shi_Toyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock gets a new case, things aren't adding up. There are mysteries piling up even faster than the bodies, but those aren't exactly coming slow. Now John has a secret that could break the case...or break their friendship forever. Case fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, this will be my first fic that I am posting over here. Please forgive any errors I make in the process. I am only just learning this site! That being said, if you spot something, let me know so I can try and fix it! I hope you all enjoy the fic! I will try and post every Thursday night, but updates will come early for every five reviews I get!

Chapter 1

When Sherlock first got the call from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, he'd been as excited as ever. He, along with almost every other person in London had heard about the recent murders. The first had been two weeks ago, a young man, maybe early twenties. He'd been military, home on leave. The second had shown up exactly a week later. A female this time, the victim was in her late thirties.

Clearly, the killer didn't have an age or gender preference. Though Sherlock didn't yet have enough evidence to say for certain, he would have put money on the fact that the killer was what criminal psychologists would call an omnivore. This term simply meant that the killer would kill indiscriminately. So far, the only thing connecting the two victims was the fact that they were both British and Caucasian. That and, of course, how they died.

Both victims had been drained of blood, completely.

Sherlock had been restless for days, waiting for the call from Lestrade. He knew it was coming, it was just a matter of time. When it finally did come, in the form of a reluctant phone call, Sherlock nearly whooped with joy and raced out of the flat. It had been exactly a week since the last killing, two weeks since the first. If he was very good, he might be able to save another life.

Lestrade met him on the cement outside of the morgue as he stepped out of his taxi. Sweeping past the man and into St. Bart's, Sherlock took note of how haggard the other man looked. Clearly, this case wasn't going well for him. Couple that with the DI's current divorce and Sherlock was surprised it took him this long to call.

"Where's John?"

Sherlock barely looked up from his phone to answer.

"Clinic. He's being positively boring about not leaving early, as if catching a killer weren't more important than a few colds."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust because, really, did John even think about what he was doing? He was clearly overqualified for the position, an army doctor should not come home just to treat the sniffles, and it wasn't like he even needed the work anymore. Thanks to John's blog, though Sherlock would never admit it aloud, they were getting plenty of traffic for cases. The fact that many of them paid quite well meant that neither of them had to work outside jobs.

Still, John insisted on keeping up with his silly locum work at the surgery, claiming something or other about how he owed Sarah for everything she'd put up with. Ridiculous. Sherlock swept the thought from his mind as he burst into the morgue, causing Molly to jump and nearly spill coffee all over herself.

"Where are they?"

Recovering quickly and getting right to work, one of Molly's best attributes in Sherlock's opinion, the young woman pulled the two bodies out of their respective drawers and positioned them on the tables for Sherlock to examine. He began with the male victim, supposedly the first to die.

According to his file, his name was Darren Clark and he'd been born and raised in London before heading off into the military at 18. He was home from his five year contract for only a few months before he shipped out again. No real family to speak of. Brunette hair, bleached somewhat from exposure to the sun, was cut short, but still played off his tanned skin rather well. Sherlock noted in an offhand way that he would probably be considered rather handsome. You know, if it weren't for the whole 'being dead' part.

Glancing at the other body, Sherlock took note of her rather attractive features as well. Possible correlation?

Liz Tolbert, the woman lying on the other table looked a bit worse for wear, despite her looks. Unlike Darren's clean-shaven appearance, the woman had dirt under nails that were bitten to stubs. Bags under her eyes looked almost bruise-like. He rotated her arm to look at the inside of the elbow and quickly found the expected track marks, an addict then. Shoulder-length hair was un-kept, a molt of blonde and dark brown. It had been dyed so many times that not even Sherlock could quite identify what its original color had been. Clearly she'd been on the outs for several years, if not longer, likely since she was a teenager.

Each victim had a dark bruise on the back of their left hand. Even just a cursory inspection revealed a needle mark in the center of the bruise. This was obviously the location from which the killer took the blood. Odd. For all intents and purposes there were a number of easier places from which to extract the blood. Taking it from the back of the hand and still managing to get all of the blood out would take time and machinery.

A further inspection of each body showed that there were no ligature marks, meaning no ropes or ties were used to restrain them. There were also no other injuries present on either victims, so they were subdued quickly and without overt force. They hadn't been knocked out by a blow to the head. Sherlock supposed soft leather restraints could have been used, there were types designed for the bondage community that were meant not to leave a mark, but he considered drugs more likely.

"Toxicology?"

Molly jumped at his sudden question, but leaned forward eagerly with her answer. It was these contradictions in her personality that drew Sherlock to her. Not romantically, of course. That still wasn't his area.

"Totally clean. Nothing popped."

Sherlock could feel the frown etching itself onto his features. No drugs? That brought him back to the leather restraints. So how did he get them on the victims? Surely, these two had not voluntarily allowed the restraints to be used on them. Factoring in how long it would take to arrange the binds, it was unlikely to be a surprise attack.

Furthermore, what had they been attached to? Judging by the looseness of the joints and skin, the restraints hadn't been attached to each other. They would have had to have been tied to something else.

"I need the crime scene photos. Likely they're useless, but maybe one of your bumbling team inadvertently caught something."

Lestrade produced the file with minimal grumbling. It seemed he'd finally gotten over that pesky phase of trying to defend his team's incompetence. That had been irritating.

Examining the pictures, Sherlock paid close attention to the ground around the victims. Each had been found in an alley, not all that unusual for murders. However, these alleyways were just off of busy areas. Both were even well-traveled. It took only a quick glance at the pictures for Sherlock to determine that the ground hadn't been disturbed around the victims by a struggle. Killed elsewhere, then.

That would corroborate with the method by which the blood was extracted. Draining a body of blood through the back of the hand was time consuming, but also very difficult without proper equipment. The killer likely used some sort of suctioning device at a fixed location before dumping the bodies. Sherlock bent over the man's hand to examine the bruise more closely.

As he'd observed before, the bruise centered around a small injection point. What was odd about the situation, though, was that there was bruising at all. Because the bodies had been drained of their blood, a bruise should not have been able to form. Sherlock initially chalked the anomaly up to the sheer amount of time it would take for the blood to be drained but he wanted to take a closer look to see if he could nail down any more details.

It was during this analysis that he spotted a difference in color between two parts of the bruise. True, bruises were in and of themselves discolorations, but this was different. Through his pocket magnifier, Sherlock was able to trace the hint of an outline that was some sort of design on Darren's hand. The bruise made it difficult to make out the complete design, but there was definitely something there. He wasted little time in checking Liz's for the same.

Sure enough, the bruise lay over a design. Several of the lines coincided perfectly with those of Darren's hand. Finally, a connection. Sherlock had been starting to think these victims had been picked at random. Once again, he turned towards Lestrade.

"What did your team find out about the stamps on their hands?"

"Stamps? You mean the bruises?"

"Ah. I see. You didn't notice them. Why am I not surprised?" He pointed at the back of each victim's hand. "There's a pattern under the bruise that appears to be some sort of stamped design. There is enough visible of each pattern that I should be able to reconstruct the original. Molly, do you have a pen and paper handy?"

"Of course!"

Molly handed over the requested items and Sherlock got to work mapping out the lines he could find under the bruises. He could practically feel the Detective Inspector leaning over his shoulder, trying to take a look at the bruising. A voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like John told him not to snap at the man.

A few minutes passed in relative silence as Sherlock worked. It wasn't long before a clear picture began to form. Though incomplete, it didn't take a genius to fill in the missing areas. (Okay, maybe it did, but Sherlock was a genius, so it wasn't like it caused any problems.) He held out the sketch to Lestrade.

"A sun and a moon?"

"They're combined into one picture. The crescent moon covers a portion of the sun. Generally, this would indicate that the night is exerting power over the day, but the sun's rays surround the entire piece, clearly displaying that it still holds great power."

"So you think the killer is marking his victims with these stamps before he kills them?"

"Oh, don't be so dull, Inspector. What I believe is that these stamps came from a specific place, likely where the killer found his victims. Don't you understand? There's finally a connection!"

In his excitement, Sherlock's gaze swept the room, eyes searching for someone who wasn't there. It seemed more and more often now that he came to expect John's presence. Though their separation was unusual, the younger Holmes still felt a flash of irritation every time he turned to say something to the man only to find he wasn't there. Who was he to have wormed his way so concretely into Sherlock's life?

It would likely come as no surprise to anyone, but Sherlock was not the type to get connected to people. Sentiment was a weakness and a luxury that he had no desire to indulge in. He'd known many people throughout his life, but John was the first he truly cared about. True, he had a fondness for Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade, but neither of them could compare to how he felt for John.

They weren't romantic feelings, per se; Sherlock didn't go through life wanting to jump his flat mate's bones. However, this was the first time Sherlock had ever had someone he could actually consider to be a friend before. He'd faked friendships for cases in the past but that was hardly the same. John affected him in ways he'd never encountered before. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to tell the difference between romantic and nonromantic emotions. He had no personal experience with either.

Furthermore, it hardly mattered which they were when John's chosen sexuality was painfully obvious. It didn't take someone with Sherlock's deductive skill to notice that he adamantly denied their being in a relationship, or that fact that he loudly proclaimed not to be gay. Even if Sherlock's feeling ran towards the romantic gambit, he would have no inclination to put his first real friendship to the test by confessing those feelings to a clearly straight man. If anything, the brunette was selfish and he would happily do whatever it took to ensure that John never left him.

As if to distract the consultant from his current line of thought, Lestrade's ringtone filled the air of the morgue. The DI answered curtly while Sherlock's gaze zeroed in on his face. The tightness along his brow and around his mouth said that it was about the case. The way his mouth tugged down said it wasn't good news. The jaw clench meant there was another body.

Right on time.

Sherlock stood and turned to the door with a swirl of his coat, tucking the sketch into his pocket. He paused before leaving and looked back over his shoulder to peer at Lestrade.

"Text me the address for the crime scene. I've got a stop to make and then I'll meet you there."

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock swept out of the door and to the street. A quick cab ride later found his passing off the sketch to a member of his homeless network and a text from Lestrade with the address. Less than half an hour after he'd left the morgue, Sherlock was entering the new crime scene. As per usual, it was Donovan who met him at the tape.

"Where's your dog, freak? Did you finally scare him away?"

"Charming as always, Donovan. It is truly amazing that you would have been passed up for promotion last week. I can't imagine how someone with your extensive skills with human relations would not have secured a position as a media liaison."

He was reasonably sure that if Sally were a dog she would have growled as he passed. Good thing he was so used to ignoring her very presence. He spotted Lestrade a short way down the alley with two uniformed yarders. As he approached, Sherlock overheard the man giving directions to canvas the area for witnesses.

"It won't do you any good. I can guarantee you won't find anything."

"Glad to see you made it. And I've still got to at least try getting witnesses. You never know, maybe someone noticed something."

"Not with this one. He's too organized. That much is clear through his blatant use of busy areas. No one saw a thing."

Lestrade swipes a hand through his hair, stress showing clearly on his face.

"Well I've got to do something, don't I? I can't just stand around waiting for you to perform a miracle while the bodies are piling up!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they swept over the Detective Inspector's form.

"There were two this time…"

"Yeah, how did you-"

"Show me."

Lestrade gestured down the alley, too stressed over the growing number of bodies to be annoyed with Sherlock's behavior. He was somewhat like John in that regard, always worrying about the person behind the bodies. It motivated him to do his job, but Sherlock still felt that sentiment was a failing.

Pushing aside these thoughts and focusing on the crime scene, Sherlock took a moment to view the two latest victims. One man and one woman; they appeared to be a couple, as the woman's head rested on his chest and her body curled towards him. His arm was wrapped around her waist. The killer could have arranged them after death, but that not only didn't seem his style but their positioning seemed too natural. It looked as though they had moved to each other in their last moments.

The thought made Sherlock frown. How could they have moved towards each other if they were so drained of blood, not to mention restrained? Also, the fact that they had moved into that position while dying and were still in it indicated that they had been killed in this alley. That didn't add up with the time and machinery it would take to drain the victims. It was possible that he had the machinery set up in a vehicle, but the alleyway wasn't wide enough to allow for such things.

Oh, this was delicious.

The man was tall, easily over six feet, and thin as a rail. Despite that, his frame was powerful and Sherlock would put money on him being able to hold his own in a fight. His skin was tanned in a way that said he was born with it and, coupled with his short black hair, Sherlock was sure he was a Latino of some sort, likely Mexican if the pads of his hands were anything to go by. A plain gold band that was obviously some years old decorated his left ring finger, so married. A matching ring on the woman's finger told the detective to whom.

The amount of wear to the outside of each ring indicated they'd been for at least fifteen years. So they'd married young. Neither individual looked more than in their late twenties. They'd been happily married, too, since the rings looked well cared for, despite their age. In fact, the design of the rings looked to be from the late 1800's. Family heirlooms, then? Likely from the man's side of the family.

The woman's skin was much darker. She had the exotic look of the woman in ancient African tribes, all high cheekbones and lanky figure. Her skin was ebony and looked as smooth as silk, hair cropped short to her scalp. Her nails were manicured to perfection and showed no signs of breakage, despite her hands looking as though she did regular work. Her thighs and calves were defined in ways that told Sherlock she did a lot of running, likely by choice. Professional athlete, perhaps?

He half-turned towards Lestrade.

"Do you have an ID yet?"

"ID's on the victim's say they are Miranda and Francisco Torres. I've got some uniforms back at the Yard running the names to see what we can dig up, but there hasn't been enough time for us to nail down anything solid."

"Check on professional athletes first, it's likely that was her profession."

"How can you even tell that?"

Despite Lestrade's disbelieving question he already had his phone out, shooting off a text to his man at the Yard. Many years and many cases had taught him not to doubt Sherlock's word on these things. Sherlock- almost smiled at the reaction but brushed the not-quite-emotion aside in favor of examining the victim's hands.

Sure enough, the signs of bruising were already well underway. Luckily, though, the marks hadn't yet reached the darkened stage of those in the morgue. Her already dark complexion rendered it impossible for Sherlock to make out any of the stamp on Miranda's hand, but Francisco's clearly displayed the mark. After snapping a picture of it with his phone, Sherlock stood.

He turned in a slow circle, examining the rest of the area. The alley was a frequent footpath and showed the signs of being well traveled. Unfortunately, this made it all the harder to identify whether or not the killer had been there. Like the other crime scenes, though, there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle.

How was it possible that the killer was restraining and killing these people in these high traffic areas without being seen and without leaving evidence? Sherlock had to admit he was good, at least as good as Moriarty in covering up his tracks.

"Well, it' clear he's picking these specific victims. They weren't chosen at random just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's trying to get something from them."

"And what, when he doesn't get it he drains their blood? Sounds like a lunatic to me. The two of you would probably get along well."

Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to will the annoyance away, but Anderson was still standing there when he opened his eyes.

"Obviously," he leveled the man with a withering look, "the blood was exactly the thing the killer wanted. Likely, he believes that it contains some sort of property that will benefit him in some way, either by consuming it or using it in a ritual of some sort. There was something about the blood of each of these victims that appealed to him in some way."

"So he thinks he's a vampire?"

"Highly unlikely. Now, do us all a favor, would you Anderson? Keep your mouth shut, preferably forever."

Movement at the edge of the crime scene caught Sherlock's eye and he was striding away from the conversation without bothering to listen to Anderson's retort. Honestly, he wondered how that man managed to survive day to day life, but he had bigger things to concentrate on. One of his homeless was standing just outside of the police tape, looking clearly uncomfortable.

Understandably enough, it was rare for a member of Sherlock's network to show up at a crime scene. Yarders and the deviants of society didn't often mix. So, when one of them did show up, it told the detective that the information they had was quite the big deal. It was the kind of information that had a way of turning the tables in a case, for better or for worse.

Ducking under the tape, Sherlock made a beeline for the grungy older gentleman who was shifting nervously from foot to foot. A junkie, he likely had contraband on him at the moment, making him all the more likely to be displeased by the police presence. Sherlock cut right to the chase.

"What have you got for me?"

"Only what you asked for." The man handed him a slip of paper, a quick glance revealing an address, before leaning in and lowering his voice. "I don't know what you want with that place, Mr. Holmes, but I'd stay away if I were you. Bad things happen there."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"What kinds of things?"

The man was already shaking his head and backing away.

"Bad things. That's all I can say. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Holmes. Don't go there."

With one last nervous look around, the man turned and disappeared into the crowd. Part of Sherlock wanted to pursue him, but a feeling in his gut told him that the lead in his hand was more important. Gripping the paper tightly, the brunette threw a hand out to hail a cab.

"Lestrade!"

The DI arrived at the same time as the cab. Sherlock wasted no time in pulling open the door and shoving the older man inside, ignoring his surprised yell. Piling in after him, Sherlock thrust the scrap of paper at the driver.

"Take us to that address."

Lestrade got himself sorted out as the cab pulled back into traffic.

"What the bloody Hell, Sherlock?! I was in the middle of a crime scene! You do realize this counts as kidnapping, don't you? I could arrest you for this."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Like you would arrest me for something this petty; you're better than that. Besides, I got a lead on the stamp and need to follow up on it. My skull is still on the mantle and John's at work, so you'll have to do."

The look Lestrade gave him was certainly not amused, but Sherlock managed to ignore it for the duration of the ride. The cab pulled up in front of what appeared to be an old business building and they piled out of the backseat. Sherlock paid the driver before turning to examine the building more closely.

Three stories tall, the entire front of the building was red brick. There were no windows or distinguishing marks except for a single metal door set in the wall. All in all, the building was a bit ramshackle, but the structure appeared sound. There was nothing about the building that would draw the eye. It was a prime example of the word 'nondescript.' If Sherlock were to pass this building on the street, he'd probably just walk right by it. However, now his eyes were drawn to the sun and moon emblazoned upon the establishment's door. A slight indention in the middle of the symbol showed where and eye slot could be pulled aside from inside the building.

A glance as the Detective Inspector's face showed him frowning at the door. Good, at least the man had noticed. Sherlock wasn't so sure everyone would have. Anderson, for example, likely would have missed the building completely.

"So this is where the killer found his victims?"

"It seems highly likely."

"Well then, let's let ourselves in, shall we?"

Lestrade strode purposely towards the door and rapped his knuckles sharply against the surface. Had there been a handle, Sherlock had little doubt the DI would have just yanked it open. As it was, they would need to wait for someone to let them in.

After a few moments without an answer, Lestrade struck the door with his knuckles again.

"Scotland Yard! Open up!"

Almost immediately, the eye slot was pulled to the side and a pair of eyes filled the gap. The voice which spoke was male and rough. It was most likely to belong to a bouncer of some sort.

"What do you want?"

Lestrade pulled out his ID.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. We have some questions for you."

"Yeah? Like what?"

The man was clearly not interested in having this conversation. His blatant issues with authority left Sherlock well inclined towards allowing Lestrade to carry on as the lead in this discussion.

"We have reason to believe that several recent murder victims were clients of your establishment. We've come to speak with the owner or manager."

"I'm afraid the owner's not here right now."

"When will they be back? We'd be happy to wait."

"I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be back right around…never."

He slammed the eye slot shut before either man could react. Lestrade blinked at the door for a moment before visibly steeling himself and knocking hard against it again. He kept up a constant barrage of knocks until the slot opened again and the same eyes as before made an appearance, noticeably more irritated now.

"What?"

Sherlock was proud of the almost pleasant smile that the DI painted across his face. How had he not seen this side of Lestrade before?

"So sorry to disturb you again, but perhaps you misheard me. I'm from New Scotland Yard and we're on a murder investigation. I suggest you open up or I'll be coming back with a warrant. Do you really want that kind of publicity?"

A gruff bark of laughter told to two investigator's exactly what the bouncer thought of Lestrade's suggestion.

"I'd like to see you try, big man. Tell you what, you come back with a warrant and I'll personally lick the very ground you walk on. But, seeing as how you won't be getting one, I suggest you get the Hell out. You're not getting in here, face it."

He slid the piece shut again, much to Sherlock's annoyance. The consultant peered up and down the street before heading towards the nearest alley. Lestrade hurried after him.

"Where are you going?"

"An establishment of this size, with this kind of security, is likely a club. They cater to powerful clients, going by the bouncer's lack of fear when you threatened to get a search warrant. Establishments like this need supply deliveries. It's unlikely they'd bring food and drink deliveries through the front door. There is likely a back entrance."

Unfortunately, this theory proved to be less than accurate. Not only was there no delivery bay or back entrance in that alley, there wasn't one in any of the surrounding alleys. Sherlock grimaced in frustration.

"It doesn't make any sense! Even if they were into something illegal, they would still need a deliver bay! Better for hiding their activities. How is there nothing?"

He continued to make known his irritation to the world all the way through the cab ride back to Baker St. It was nearly 6:30 in the afternoon and John would be coming home in the next hour or so. Perhaps his presence would help Sherlock come up with a workable explanation instead of the mystery presented before him. He took up residence in his usual chair, hands pressed together under his chin and elbows on his knees.

While the consultant imitated a statue, Lestrade paced up and down the living room of 221B. His phone was pressed to his ear as he tried in vain to obtain a search warrant for the establishment with the sun and moon on its door. It probably didn't help that he couldn't even tell them what the establishment was a business in, but he still found it ridiculous that it was so hard to obtain a warrant. Door after door was shut to him.

This was how John found them, Lestrade verbally abusing his mobile while Sherlock seemed lost to the world.

"Something happen with the case, then?"

He kept one eye on them while heading to the kitchen to put away groceries. The Tesco's bag clutched in one hand clearly indicated he'd stopped for milk and jam on the way home. Sherlock pulled himself from his mind palace to follow the blonde from the room.

"We've been shut out of an establishment that holds the key to solving this case. If we can get in there, we can figure out what it is that connects the victims. As it stands, I don't have enough data. However, I know that all four victims were clients there."

John looked over his shoulder in surprise before turning to face his flat mate.

"Four? I thought this was for the case with the two bodies?"

Lestrade leaned sullenly against the door to the kitchen, adding his two cents to the conversation.

"It is. Two more bodies showed up this afternoon. Sherlock was able to connect them through a stamp on the back of each victim's hand. We traced it back to a club of some kind, but they won't let us in or answer any questions."

"Can't you get a search warrant?"

Lestrade swiped a hand through his hair.

"I've been trying to do just that for the past few hours, but I can't find a judge to sign off on it. Every time I call I get the same response of not having sufficient evidence. It's bloody bullshit!"

John frowned and walked past them into the living room, bending over the coffee table to pick up the piece of paper where Sherlock had doodled the symbol again. Sherlock couldn't have missed the way John's entire body tensed if he'd wanted to.

"You recognize it?"

Excitement coursed through his veins. Finally they were going to get somewhere with this case! Perhaps John could give them some insight into the establishment. Did he know what their purpose was?

He was so wrapped up in the thrill of things that he almost missed the dark cloud that had crossed John's expression.

"Sherlock, I want you to drop this case."

The brunette could only blink in surprise, mouth agape, as Lestrade blew up at his flat mate.

"What the Hell, John?! People are getting killed out there and you want him to drop the case?! Sherlock's the best asset we have and right now he's the only one with any hope of bringing the killer to justice!"

"You don't think I know that?! Those people who died, I feel damn bad for them, Lestrade, but I can't let this happen! You want to know if I recognize this design? The answer is yes! And I know how dangerous that means this case is! You were told you couldn't get a search warrant because of a lack of evidence? Well, rest assured that had nothing to do with it. You could have a body nailed to their door and you wouldn't get in there."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he suddenly surged forward. He wasn't quite in John's face, but he was close.

"And how, exactly, do you know?"

The muscle in John's jaw twitched as it clenched.

"I can't tell you." He let out a sigh and turned away, setting the piece of paper down on the coffee table. "Trust me. I know you don't understand, but it's for your own goo-"

He stopped short of whatever he was going to say, his eyes riveted on the table. Sherlock stepped to the side to see what had his attention and spotted a picture of the most recent murder victims that Lestrade had ordered Donovan to send over and Sherlock had printed out. John was staring at the man's face with a look that displayed clear personal pain. Another piece clicked into place.

"You knew him."

"Both of them. I was in their wedding. He was…He was like a son to me, at one time." John picked up the picture with a trembling hand. It was the first time Sherlock had ever seen his hands shake. "They were the victims today?"

Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock answered. Neither of them needed to.

John's hand clenched around the photo, crumpling the edges. Despite having his back to them, his anger seeped from every pore. A minute of silence reigned throughout the flat before he turned to face them, every bit the soldier he'd once been.

"Sherlock?"

The brunette raised his head in response, but gave no verbal reply. Lestrade waited behind him with baited breath.

"I can get you into that club and let you talk to the owner, but you have to promise me you won't ask any questions. I won't be able to explain much, but you'll need to do exactly as I tell you, end of story. If you're coming too, Lestrade, the same applies."

Sherlock's curls bobbed as he nodded.

"Done."


	2. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, so I was rereading my file for this work and it needs a LOT more editing than I thought it would...I'll try and keep updating at a pretty good clip, but some updates might come a bit late as I smooth out the wrinkles, so to speak. Still, I hope you enjoy!

A metallic scrape accompanied the motion of the eye slot sliding to the side. A sliver of light shone out into the street and the same pair of eyes from earlier appeared in the gap. A split second later, they were glaring out at Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Oh, for the love of-UGH! Look, I told you, you're not getting in here. Since we both know you couldn't get a warrant, why don't you just bugger off?"

It was at this point that John stepped forward, into the man's line of sight. His usual pleasant demeanor was replaced by tension and aggression. He'd been brooding throughout the cab ride over. Whatever his connection to the two latest victims was, their deaths certainly affected him.

"I think you may change your mind about that."

The eyes snapped to John and widened comically.

"Doctor! These two are with you?"

"Obviously."

For a moment, with that one word, Sherlock could have believed he was standing next to Mycroft. Having that feeling with John around was disconcerting to say the least. He didn't like it.

There was a brief pause as the eyes disappeared before the door opened. The eyes appeared again, this time attached to a body. The bouncer was on the buff side, as would be expected, and his expression was sour, if a bit cautious when looking at John. The three men filed inside without preamble and Sherlock's gaze swept over the room. It was relatively plain, with a hallway leading off to one side and a simple desk and chair pressed into a corner. The bouncer picked up a stamp from the desk and pressed it against the back of each of their hands.

Sherlock eyed the sun embossed upon his skin before sneaking a peak at the Detective Inspector's. Sure enough, the sun decorated his skin as well, no moon in sight. John's hand, however, was stamped with the same sun and moon design that had been on the victim's hands. Sherlock's eyes narrowed again, something they'd been doing a lot lately. There were too many mysteries piling up that didn't make sense.

The bouncer hadn't switched out stamps between their hands, nor pressed it against an ink pad. Though Sherlock had watched him closely, he hadn't caught the man make any adjustments to the mechanism. There was no explanation for how the design had been switched. Furthermore, it was implausible that the stamp would have held enough ink to stamp all three of their hands as clearly as it had, not to mention the fact that the ink of Sherlock's hand was no heavier than that on Lestrade's or John's.

What Sherlock's mind was really focused upon, however, was why himself and Lestrade warranted only a sun while John got the sun and the moon stamp. The first possibility was that the sun and the moon signified a member of the club while the sun indicated a nonmember. It seemed an easy enough explanation except that it didn't add up with the first victim. Darren Clark had been deployed with the military for the past five years, how would he have been a member of the club? It was possible he'd just joined, but that seemed pointless as he was about to leave again. Why would he bother joining a club for so short a time?

His musings were cut short as John began speaking.

"The main club is through the doors at the end of the hall. I need to speak with Dominic for a moment. You two go ahead but, Sherlock, whatever you do, do not go into the main club without me."

The brunette gave a short nod before heading down the dimly-lit hall, Lestrade trailing after him. The DI leaned close to speak in a hushed voice.

"What was up with that stamp? I'm sure you saw something I didn't, but how did it change like that?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock's irritation grew at the shocked look on Lestrade's face. Greg just groaned and swiped a hand over his face.

"I hate this case. I really, really hate this case."

As John had said, a pair of swinging doors stood at the end of the wall. Though neither could see inside, they could hear the thumping of the music and see flashing lights around the frame of the door. Sherlock moved to push through them only to have Lestrade catch his arm.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? John said to wait for him."

"He hasn't been exactly forthcoming with information. I want to know what's really going on here."

"Sherlock, you and I both know that John wouldn't hide something without a good reason. This is clearly a very dangerous situation."

"Don't you think I know that, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock used his title to tell Lestrade exactly how irritated he was with the entire situation. "John is somehow connected to these people. If they're dangerous, that means they could endanger him and that is not something I am willing to risk!"

The last part was hissed out and, quite honestly, not something Sherlock had meant to let slip. Though entirely true, the younger Holmes didn't exactly want to go around advertising his questionable feelings towards John. The slip worked in his favor, however, since the DI's gaze softened.

"For John, then. But when he blows a gasket, I'm telling him I tried to stop you!"

Sherlock nodded sharply before turning back to the doors and pushing through. It didn't escape his notice that the music cut off at the exact same moment his hand touched the door, but that didn't change the fact that the entire club was silent as the stepped inside. A sea of faces stared up at them as they descended the five stairs to the main level, but Sherlock was busy studying the room itself.

The room was expansive and dark, though several lights still flashed around the building Sherlock could still not see into all the corners. A bar ran along one wall, the curved surface under-lit by blue light. Three bartenders stood behind the counter, telling Sherlock that this was a fairly busy establishment. The faint hint of glitter under the glossy surface of the floor indicated a distinctly cultivated feel. This establishment catered to a very specific clientele. A door stood at the other end of the room, much like the ones they'd just stepped through. A sign reading 'Employees Only' decorated it's front.

Tables and booths were scattered around the outer edge of the room, most occupied by various individuals. The booths were made of black leather while the tables were under-lit with the same light as the bar. Several gilded cages hung from the ceiling with performers in bright, skimpy clothes inside. A large dance floor filled the center of the room with a DJ box overlooking it. There were perhaps two hundred figures in the room, and each one of them had their gaze fixed on the newcomers.

A tattooed man with a number of piercings stepped out of the crowd. His head was shaved and his tattoos framed his eyes in a clear attempt to make himself more intimidating. Clearly, he cared a lot more about his 'look' than he wanted others to believe. His leather jacket and heavy boots said biker while his muscles and sour expression indicated troublemaker. His general posture also told Sherlock he wasn't happy with their appearance.

"Oi! What the bloody Hell are these two Sunners doing here? I didn't come here to have my party crashed."

Sherlock scoffed at his obvious front. Several individuals the man had been near rolled their eyes, clearly exasperated by his behavior. Apparently, causing a scene was nothing new to him. The man didn't take his derisive expression well.

"What're you scoffing at, Sunner? You shouldn't even be here."

"If you spent half as much time paying attention to others as you do trying to look the part of a powerful leader, maybe you'd know."

"Why you little piece of shite!"

The man surged forward, fist pulled back to strike Sherlock's face. He moved with startling speed, catching the consultant by surprise. The brunette had little doubt he'd have wound up on the ground if the doors behind him hadn't slammed open, banging loudly off the wall.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm really not in the mood."

A murmur swept the crowd as John descended into the room. His expression was irritated, something that Sherlock felt looked odd on his face but that he'd been wearing often since finding out about the latest murders. At the moment, his irritation was clearly directed at the man who still had his fist raised to strike Sherlock. Not seeming to acknowledge the fact that the other man had nearly a foot on him, John stepped between him and his flatmate.

"Back off, mutt, I don't like it when others touch what's mine."

The man wrinkled his nose, clearly not happy to see John, either. In yet another move that made Sherlock suspicious, though, he did exactly as suggested. What kind of power did his unassuming blogger wield in this circle?

"Didn't realize they belonged to you, Doctor. Maybe you should keep a better eye on your things."

That was the second time someone connected to the case had used John's medical title. Was he that well-known here? Did his medical degree have something to do with his place in this group? Sherlock shelved that question as John began walking through the room, clearly ignoring the man's statement. The crowd before him parted like a sea, making room for him to walk. After a moment's pause, Sherlock and Lestrade moved to follow him.

It wasn't until Sherlock was walking past that the leather-clad man made another move. Leaning forward just a touch, he growled at the brunette, literally growled like a dog. It was low and quiet, meant as a threat. Still, Sherlock blinked in surprise at the speed with which John was back at his side, hand clenched around the man's neck. The blonde held him for a moment before pushing him away, sending him down on his arse. If John had looked irritated before, he looked downright angry now.

"I told you to back off. Don't disobey me again."

Although he hadn't said it, the 'or else' hung heavy in the air. John turned slowly to survey the room. No one stepped forward to answer his silent challenge, but that didn't seem to settle his nerves much. Seamlessly, the blonde slipped between his two companions, his back to Lestrade and facing Sherlock. He reached back to pull the DI's face into his neck at the same time as he yanked Sherlock forward.

To say Sherlock Holmes was surprised that straight-as-a-rail John Watson was kissing him would be a gross understatement. However, he managed to keep that surprise off his face as his flat mate's mouth ravaged his own. John's lips were rough and a bit chapped, but they moved with the precision of someone with plenty of experience. (This hardly surprised Sherlock, the way the doctor flitted between women.)

For a moment, the rest of the club melted away. It was only John and Sherlock and their lips. Eventually, after what felt like centuries to the brunette, the kiss was interrupted. John jerked back as a voice rang out through the club and Sherlock had the oddest urge to follow him.

"And who, exactly, is causing such a disturbance in my club?"

The woman speaking had appeared from the door marked 'Employees Only.' She lookeded to be in her early twenties, with brown hair in the short bob cut that had been so popular in the early 1900's. Her skirt suit was pitch black, making the edges hard to make out in the dark, but Sherlock had no doubts it was cut to perfectly hug her frame. One side of the knee-length skirt was split all the way to the hip, showing off a white lace garter to match the shirt under her jacket. The jacket itself was held closed by two ornate silver buttons along the right side. Four strings of pearls roped her neck to complete the outfit, along with a silver claw on her right middle finger.

She looked deadly.

"Sorry, Benedicta. We didn't mean to cause a scene."

Her stern expression softened as it lit upon John.

"Well, well, if it isn't Doctor John. To what do we owe the pleasure? A man of your distinction wouldn't be here to mingle."

She uttered the last word with a hint of distaste, as if the mere thought were beneath her.

"Came to see you, actually. Are you free?"

"For you, John? Always. Come, we can speak in my office."

She gestured to the door behind her with one perfectly manicured hand and the trio moved forward. Once again, the crowd parted for them and they moved through without problems. They were moving up the stairs towards her when she lifted one finger to her red-painted lips as though remembering something.

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Jerome?" The bald man looked up from his grumbling, clearly still angry. "Get out."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and promptly strode through the door, pausing only long enough for John to reach around in order to hold it open for her. They entered another hallway, this one with more doors on either side. As they strode down the hall, Benedicta's heels clicking loudly, Sherlock took a moment to examine his reaction to the earlier kiss.

Though in all previous experience Sherlock was strictly asexual, this particular incident had been…pleasant. He knew of course that John had performed the task out of necessity to provide both himself and Lestrade a measure of safety among those within the club. By giving the illusion of a sexual relationship, and thus ownership, John's authority would extend to the two of them. Lestrade wouldn't have been able to hide his shock at the act, so covering his face with John's neck had been a logical choice. It wasn't the thinking behind the act that bothered Sherlock.

The bald man, Jerome, had referred to them as 'Sunners,' no doubt a reference to the stamp on the back of their hands. The term was remarkably similar to 'sinners' and was likely a type of derogatory slang. Clearly, those with the sun stamp were considered outsiders. As an insider, and apparently a prominent one, John had provided them with access that would have otherwise been denied. It was an easy solution.

Sherlock couldn't help feeling conflicted about the action, however. When John had moved away, he'd felt the urge to follow him and resume their previous activity. While Sherlock was not inexperienced with kissing, this particular feeling was new to him. He'd kissed plenty of people over the years, mostly for the sake of a case, but he had never before particularly enjoyed it. Perhaps it was due to John's evident level of experience, but Sherlock wasn't so sure.

It seemed unlikely that merely a level of skill could provoke such reactions from him. He'd never been shy about the idea that his brain came first and his body came second. He kept up with the bare essentials, such as occasionally eating and the minimum of sleep, but everything else was transport. He saw no reason for that to change now, except of course for the inexplicable fact that it seemed to be doing just that. As they filed into Benedicta's office, Sherlock resolved to spend more time examining this event at a later date. For now, the case took precedence.

The office was not overly-large, but still bigger than most. A mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room. The far wall held two bookshelves framing an ornate portrait of a dark, brooding man. The gold placard along the bottom of the frame proclaimed the well-dressed man to be Udi von Alon. Sherlock had never heard of him. The painting appeared to be early 19th century in style. A long, Victorian era couch sat before the desk. The upholstery was white while the carved, dark wood trim wound decorative designs around the piece. Clearly, this woman had a thing for classic style.

Benedicta strode around the desk and took a seat in a high-backed, black, leather chair. She gestured for them to take a seat, an offer which John and Lestrade took. Sherlock, however, preferred to stand. He had much too much energy to sit right now. Instead, he placed himself behind the couch, pacing idly.

"It's been such a long time, John. I thought you were trying to take a little break from all this." She gestured vaguely to the air, as if you indicate the club. "Can I assume you're break is over?"

"Not by choice, I can assure you. Lestrade here is a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard and Sherlock consults on some of his cases. A lead brought them to your club, but your bouncer turned them away."

The woman seemed completely unapologetic.

"That is, after all, what I pay him for."

"Of course, which is why I came back with them tonight. I was hoping you could answer some of their questions, though I know there are…certain things you won't be able to talk about."

Subtlety had never been John's strong suit, but Sherlock had to wonder if he was even trying. Benedicta steepled her fingers and rested her elbows on the desk.

"And you, John? What's your stake in all this? I know you can be downright nauseatingly kind at times, but risking so much for some people you don't know seems far-fetched."

"You've heard about the murders, I'm sure. They're the ones where the bodies have been found in the alleys, drained of blood."

"I've heard of them, of course. My business is information."

"Two more were found today, Miranda and Francisco."

The woman sat back in her chair, shock written all over her face. If Sherlock had any suspicions about her being involved in the murders, they vanished in that moment. The surprise, and slightest bit of pain, was just too genuine.

"No…I hadn't heard…Oh, John, I'm so sorry."

Her sympathetic tone rang sincere, further backing up Sherlock's theory that the relationship between John and the victims ran deeper than he was letting on. John's fist clenched against his knee and Sherlock could make out the creases of anger around his mouth. When he spoke, though, his voice was measured.

"Right now I just want to catch the killer. Sherlock could be the difference in making that happen, so I'm willing to try anything."

Benedicta nodded sharply, sitting up straight and becoming all business again. She pulled a file across the desk towards her.

"When I heard about the earlier murders I went ahead and began compiling what information I could. As you can understand, I don't take kindly to someone killing off my patrons. The first two victims had both been here within a few days of their murder. Francisco and Miranda were here just last night. I remember because it had been so long. They'd been in Africa for…" she paused to let her gaze flicker to Sherlock and Lestrade, "years. They arrived around 11 and stayed until at least three, maybe four in the morning. Francisco was talking about going to see you. He came to see if I knew how to find you."

"You always have been the one to go to for that kind of thing."

"Well, you did kind of just drop off the map, John. Did you expect everyone to just forget about you?"

John wore that sad little smile he got whenever he talked about something that caused him pain and Sherlock felt a tug in his chest. He didn't like that look.

"I suppose not. What else can you tell us?"

"Not much, unfortunately. I can review the security footage, though, and get back to you."

Sherlock leaned forward, gripping the back of the sofa.

"I didn't see any cameras in the club, or outside. What kind of system do you use?"

Benedicta's smile turned mischievous and perhaps a touch sharp.

"Oh, don't you worry about that. We have a custom system, very advanced."

"Perhaps you would be willing to turn the footage over to the Yard? Or even just allow Sherlock to view it? No offence, but we are trained for this sort of thing. We may pick up something you missed."

"I'm afraid I can't do that Inspector…Lestrade, was it? Turning over the tapes is entirely out of the question. Rest assured, though, that they will be thoroughly looked over. You have my word."

Now Sherlock was starting to get irritated. All of these dead ends were beginning to drive him mad.

"And what exactly is that supposed to count for?"

Benedicta's eyebrows rose as John leaned forward to intercede, ever the peace-keeper.

"Ben, please, do you know who would do this? Or why? Anything you know would help."

Sighing, the woman shook her head.

"I'm sorry, John, but I haven't heard anything about something like this going down. If I had, you know I wouldn't have let it happen. I don't know why, either. Could be it's a ritual of some sort. You and I both know who would be able to answer that question."

"No. Absolutely not."

John's adamant refusal surprised everyone in the room. Since his discovery of the latest victims, he'd seemed focused entirely upon getting Sherlock and Lestrade the access and information they needed, short of whatever it was about this place that would endanger them. Benedicta didn't seem to understand his refusal either.

"John, I know things ended roughly there, but if anyone can figure this out, it's Nic. He's an expert. He's THE expert."

"I said no, alright? It's way too dangerous, all things considered." He slid a glance sideways at Sherlock. "Look, I can't have this conversation right now."

Benedicta glared at him.

"When are you going to have it, then? When someone else you love winds up as a corpse? You came here for information, John."

The blonde grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Several moments passed before he managed to control his temper and turn to his two companions.

"I need you two to wait outside. Dominic can escort you through the club, but I need to talk to Benedicta for a moment alone."

As if on cue, the office door swung open and the bouncer stuck his head in. He looked as disgruntled as before, if not more so.

"Babysitting duty. Great."

Sherlock was no more thrilled. Sullenly, he pushed off the back of the sofa and headed for the door, accompanied by Lestrade. He shot one last look at John before following the bouncer out. Dominic took them out a different way than they had entered, using the back passages to circumnavigate the club. Apparently, he didn't want to risk another outburst like the one earlier. Grumbling under his breath the entire way, he led them back in the original room and towards the exit. He held out a piece of paper to Lestrade.

"Here, the Doc wanted me to get him a number and there it is. Make sure it gets to him."

Lestrade looked up in confusion.

"Why me?"

"Because he," the bouncer nodded to Sherlock, "wouldn't give it to him. Now get out before you annoy me any more than you already have."

By the time they were out in the alley, Sherlock was downright pissed off. Hands shoved in coat pockets, he stomped away from the door and towards the entrance to the nearby alley. Lestrade scurried after him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!"

The consultant paid him no mind as he rounded the corner, just wanting something to do in order to redirect his anger. He didn't like not knowing what was going on, especially not when it involved John. A group of the homeless was huddled around a metal barrel at the other end of the alley. This time of year the weather was getting colder and they shuffled to each get a good position around the fire lit within. They weren't a part of Sherlock's network, but he could hardly spare the thought of recruiting them at the moment. Giving into a fit of pique, Sherlock kicked a stone rather savagely. It skittered off down the alley, not doing hardly anything to ease the brunette's ire. Nor was it eased by the chuckles that filled the air.

"What's this? Are you mad, little Sunner? Did Daddy send you away while he conducted business? Well, that's just fine by me. I'd be happy to provide a little entertainment."

Sherlock's gaze whipped back the way they'd come, spotting the tattooed man from the club standing in the mouth of the alley. Beside him, he could feel Lestrade stiffen. The smile that decorated the man's face said he was definitely not here for a pleasant chat.

"I don't know about you two, but I like to play with my food a bit before I eat it."

Sherlock lifted his chin, stubbornly refusing to be intimidated.

"It figures someone as atrocious with social customs would have disgusting eating habits as well. Tell me, however have you managed to last this long?"

The man growled, louder than earlier. It startled Sherlock with just how dog-like it sounded. A human shouldn't have been able to make that noise.

"You know what? I've had just about enough of you. You walk about like you're all that, but without the Doctor here to protect you, you're nothing. Well, that's not quite right…" His grin turned downright feral. "You're mine, pretty boy."

Sherlock almost couldn't believe what happened next. Before their very eyes, the man's body began to shift. He yanked off his jacket as his bones appeared to snap and rearrange themselves. His face morphed into a snout with long, drool-dripping fangs and coarse hair began sprouting from his entire body. Pointed ears pushed out of the side of his head as the beast threw back his head and howled.

Surprised shouts and the pounding of feet behind him told Sherlock that the homeless had made a run for it, but he couldn't quite pay attention to that. All of his focus was on the werewolf standing before him. Lestrade swore colorfully beside him. The beast's gaze snapped down and its lips pulled back in a growl. Against all logic, it began to speak again, though the words had a growled edge to them.

"What's the matter, pretty boy? Scared I might bite? You should be."

The beast leapt at them, charging forward at a speed Sherlock would have been unprepared for if he hadn't seen the earlier display in the club. Grabbing Lestrade by the lapels, he dove sideways and out of the way. The werewolf just barely missed them, claws digging into the cement as it tried to turn as it landed.

"Fast reflexes you've got there. Good. I'd hate for this to be over quickly."

The wolf charged again, but Sherlock had nowhere to go. His back was, quite literally, to a wall. Was this it? Was this how the great Sherlock Holmes was going to die, ripped apart by a mythical creature in an alley?

Sherlock could feel the beast's breath on his face before something slammed into its side and the furred creature was sent tumbling. Recovering quickly, both investigators scrambled towards the mouth of the alley. If nothing else, it would provide a better vantage point for escape from another attack.

Looking back to see what had saved them, Sherlock was shocked to see John facing down the creature.

"I warned you not to disobey me again, Jerome. Looks like you're no better at following that order than your father was. Lucky me, I get to end your line for good this time. I'd hate the thought of having to deal with this situation yet again."

The significance of that confession was not lost of Sherlock or Lestrade, who realized that John had just confessed to killing this…creature's father. However, there seemed to be more pressing matters at hand.

The wolf let out an infuriated howl, apparently too enraged for words. It charged forward, wicked claws grasping for the blonde. John, however, ducked under the outstretched limb to punch the creature square in the jaw. A high whimper sounded as the creature went tumbling to the side. It crashed into the wall and crumpled.

John turned quickly to Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Are you two alright? It didn't bite you, did it?"

"John, look out!"

The warning came too late, though, as the creature surged back into action. The crumple had obviously been faked as it struck out with a clawed hand again, catching John across his back and throwing John clear across the alley…right into the burning fire in the old oil drum which all but exploded on contact.

"JOHN!"

John's form didn't move.

"Oh, bloody Hell…Sherlock, please tell me that did not just happen."

Truthfully, Sherlock hadn't thought himself capable of the emotions that coursed through him in that moment. He'd just witnessed a man turn into a werewolf and attack him, but that hardly seemed to matter in the face of his best friend and flat mate being killed. For some reason, his mind flitted back to that kiss in the club. The pain was excruciating.

The werewolf laughed harshly.

"So this is all it takes to defeat the great Doctor? I expected more from him, really, but I guess one can't place too much stock in legends, after all." He turned back towards the two horrified men. "Now, which of you would like to die next?"

"Neither of them, preferably."

The attention of all three snapped back towards the barrel, where a blackened and burnt figure was dragging itself into a standing position. Still on fire, it strode out of the flames. A quick flick of the figure's wrist put the flames out and Sherlock watched in disbelieving fascination as the charred skin began to heal itself. Moments later, John stood before them again, completely healed. His cloths were mostly burnt off, but the important bits were still covered. He looked just as he did before.

Except, of course, for his jet black eyes and the fangs poking out of his mouth.

"I didn't see that surprise attack coming at all. Clearly, I'm out of practice. Still, I suppose I should thank you…for blowing my cover and all. Now I don't have to hold back."

And, with that, he vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment! They give me life!


	3. I Can Explain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of explanation, now that Sherlock and Lestrade can know the details.

Sherlock later realized that John hadn't disappeared at all, only appeared to. He had, in fact, simply moved at a speed faster than the human eye could track, giving the illusion of disappearing…because that made the whole situation so much less weird.

It took him less than five seconds to finish the fight, reappearing above the werewolf's head and driving his hand down through his neck. The blow would have severed the spinal cord instantly, not to mention the windpipe. Sherlock and Lestrade could only gape as John planted one foot against the collapsed creature's back and yanked his hand out, shaking it in disgust.

"Ugh! I hate wolf blood! The stink takes weeks to wash off!"

"I was going to step in, but it looked like you had things pretty well handled. Falling for that fake unconsciousness bit, though…really, John."

Benedicta strode down the alley way towards them, appearing calm as ever. Clearly, a man turning into a monster and being slaughtered was an everyday occurrence for her. She waved a dismissive hand at the corpse.

"I'll have someone come deal with that. Shall we step back inside? You're friends look like they could sit down."

For the first time, John seemed to notice them again. His expression instantly turned sheepish as the fangs retracted and the black seeped back until only his pupils remained the color of pitch.

"Um, I can explain?"

Lestrade recovered his voice first, but Sherlock just felt like he was still watching the entire things through someone else's eyes. This kind of thing just didn't happen in real life.

"You bloody well better be able to! What the Hell was that?"

John opened and shut him mouth several times, starting and stopping words before they even got out. Benedicta rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please. It's clear what's going on here. Obviously, the creature that just attacked you was a werewolf. His name was Jerome and he ran a pack in the area. The only reason I let him into the club in the first place was because his family was so old. John, here, is a vampire. In fact, he's one of the oldest and most powerful vampires in existence today. I, too, am a vampire and this club serves an exclusively supernatural clientele."

"Benedicta!"

The woman scoffed at John's scandalized expression.

"As if you could come up with a convincing lie, what with how brilliant you've been telling me that adorable little flat mate of yours is. Besides, if two vampires as powerful and influential as we are decide to let a couple of humans in on our world, we're damn well going to do it. You practically made the laws, John, exactly who do you think is going to get onto you about them? Do away with your doubts, Doctor. They are such frivolous irritants."

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He had to be mishearing something. John looked at him sympathetically.

"We should go inside. It'd be better to continue this discussion there."

She turned and tapped the brick wall along the side of the alley. As if from nowhere, a door appeared. It was basic, metal, and appeared exactly like the one at the front of the building with the exception of a door handle. Benedicta pulled it open and held it for them.

"It's a simple transportation spell. I had the building set up with them as soon as I acquired the place. Come along now."

Cautiously, Sherlock approached the door. Many believed that his curiosity led to recklessness, but the detective knew very well when to rush into a situation and when to hang back. This particular situation was one where he found himself particularly out of his depth.

John was a vampire?

It didn't make any sense…except it did. He'd seen with his own eyes how that man, Jerome, had shifted into a part wolf, part man hybrid. He'd also seen how John had moved at such high speeds and had the strength to thrust his hand into the other creature's body. That wasn't something a human could do.

But, really? Sweater-wearing John was a blood-drinking undead?

His mind pulled an old case up from the archives of his palace. It had been brought to him several years before he'd met John, back when he was really just getting started with this whole consulting detective gig. A man had come to him, utterly convinced that his daughter had been turned into a vampire. Sherlock had, at the time, dismissed the case. Now, however, he wondered if there had been any truth in the matter.

As if to follow up this acquisition, his mind provided another memory. This time, it was of John's initial reaction when they'd been told about the Baskerville case. He'd been antsy and more attentive than usual, despite being less talkative. As they had learned more about the case, though, he'd relaxed. Could it have been that he was suspicious of supernatural activity and relaxed only upon realizing its unlikelihood?

There was also the irrefutable evidence of the way John's appearance had changed for those few minutes of action. The blacked-out eyes and fangs were a definite indicator that things weren't quite right. It wasn't the most horrifying image of a vampire he'd ever seen, but it was certainly…unsettling. It was also a far cry from the romanticized image of vampires that was so often portrayed by the media.

It would be interesting to discover all of the differences for himself. In fact, it occurred to Sherlock that this could be a rather fascinating experience. Sherlock already trusted John with his life and that wasn't likely to change just because of a couple fangs and a little blood drinking. (The consultant was forced to admit to himself that he probably had worse habits than that on his own.)

Seizing Lestrade by the shoulder, he doubted the DI would move otherwise, he headed through the newly appeared doorway. The inspector leaned over to hiss into his ear.

"Did you know about this, Sherlock? Because I, for one, have no bloody clue what's going on and I'm not exactly enjoying it."

"It appears John has been keeping a pretty large secret from us. Let's hear him out before we make any final judgments, shall we?"

Sherlock had no plans of leaving John because of this discovery. It wasn't like he felt endangered by the apparent vampire. After all, they'd lived together for so long now that if John had wanted to attack him he would have done so long ago.

Stepping through the doorway, Sherlock was surprised to find them right back in Benedicta's office. The woman stepped in after them and returned to her seat behind the desk, John filing in after to lean against one of the bookshelves. A cursory glance over his form told Sherlock how uncomfortable he felt. Clearly, he thought this new information would change things somehow and the brunette felt his lips pull downward at the thought. Did John really believe he meant so little to his flat mate?

Elbows on the desk, Benedicta tucked her hands under her chin and stared calmly at the two men in front of her. Lestrade had sunk back down on the sofa and Sherlock lurked behind it.

"Let's cover the basics then, shall we? Yes, the supernatural world exists. Almost every creature you've ever heard of exists, in one form or another. Vampires, werewolves, demons, imps, faeries, that ridiculous Bigfoot legend from the Colonies; they are all real. Both John and I, as I've already said, are vampires. That creature outside was a werewolf. This," she gestured to the air, "is a club I opened that caters exclusively to supernatural clientele."

"Why didn't we see anything supernatural the first time we entered the club?"

The question came from Sherlock, wanting to get as much information as he could.

"I have Glamours set up to prevent such accidents from occurring. The moment your skin touched the door to enter the club the magic sensed you were human and immediately threw up a Glamour to hide the true nature of our guests. It's one of the many magical protections I've put up around the establishment."

"A Glamour?"

"It is a type of magic that comes to some naturally and others through practice and concentration. Fae, for example, are born with the ability to hide their true natures. It is a type of illusionary magic which shields the appearance of a supernatural creature so that they may hide in human society."

"So our murder victims, they were supernatural creatures?"

The smile that crept across Benedicta's face held a certain measure of pride. She liked that Sherlock was asking the right questions. Mentally, he scoffed at the thought that he would do anything else.

"Correct. Darren Clark, your first victim, was a Fae. The younger ones often enjoy involving themselves in human wars. It allows them to practice their abilities and wreak havoc with little chance of being caught. He was on his way to becoming a member of the White Wolves, the guards to the Queen of the Winter Court of the Fae."

Lestrade asked, "The Winter Court?" at the same time that Sherlock wondered, "Exactly how often do the supernatural get involved in human wars?"

Instead of Benedicta, it was John who answered both questions.

"The Fae have four courts, one for each season. They are featured in many of the stories humans tell about them and are located in different realms. Each court has the characteristics of what you might expect for that season. The Winter Court is the most war-like of the courts, but Summer is the most powerful. As for the wars, there are many of us who get involved. For some, it is about gaining power, while others fight because they believe in the cause."

"Why did you fight?"

"To get away."

A sad, far-away look filled John's eyes and Sherlock had the sense to look away. Unfortunately, Lestrade was not quite as observant.

"What were you trying to get away from?"

A sigh slipped past the blonde's lips.

"I am very old, one of the oldest vampires in existence. Despite the common misconception, immortality can be very…trying. I have reached a point where one of the only things I desire is just to be able to believe I am normal, if only for a little while."

"So you move in with Sherlock Holmes?"

A smile cracked John's lips and for a moment the sad look was wiped away.

"Yes, well, I hadn't quite counted on that bit."

A thought occurred to Sherlock and he cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"You were invalided back from Afghanistan because you'd been shot. I've even seen the scar. Back in the alley, though, you healed from the burns rather quickly. What was the difference?"

Benedicta turned slightly to look at John.

"You didn't tell me you were shot. Obviously it wasn't a normal bullet, or you wouldn't have been sent back." Her eyes narrowed and Sherlock felt a certain kinship with her for the first time. "Do tell me you slaughtered the fool who dared to harm you."

"Not quite. Unfortunately, I was rather incapacitated at the time. Without Bill Murray, I might not have even made it. I was lucky he was on my team."

"The American actor?"

John stared at Lestrade in confusion before his face cleared, seeming to finally get the reference.

"Ah, no. Though he shared the same name, Bill has no connection. He's a Glimmer Skin. They're a type of creature that can cross planes of existence. They inhabit the bodies of willing hosts in order to fight and cultivate their powers."

"And how, exactly, did he save your life?"

This was the detail that Sherlock was much more keenly interested in. He'd truly thought he'd lost John back in the alley, when he'd been thrown into the flames, and the icy tendrils of dread crept back into his chest at the mention of his loss again so soon.

"Supernaturals are common enough in war that there are often measures taken against them. There are enough on each side that it generally balances out. The bullet I was shot with was made of silver, filled with Holy Water, engraved with a cross, and had been blessed by three priests. It would have spelled bad news for any creature. Most vampires would have died instantly. I'm lucky enough to have lived so long. I managed to survive until Bill could pull the bullet out and he saw to it that I got proper, vampiric, treatments for the wound."

"He's the one you were talking to Dominic about, correct? The one you were trying to find?"

John nodded to Benedicta's question.

"Whoever this killer is, he was powerful enough to restrain each of these victims. We'll need backup, and there's no better fighter than Bill."

The mention sparked something in Lestrade and he rooted through his pocket.

"The bouncer, Dominic, gave this to me for you. I completely forgot in all the…activity."

He held the slip of paper given to him earlier out to John. The blonde took it and examined it.

"That's an Afghani area code, must be Bill's number. I'm just glad I was aware of his connection your bouncer."

"Speaking of connections, let's get back to the victims, shall we? I am quite looking forward to finding out about the others."

Benedicta nodded sharply.

"Of course. It's so easy to get off track with so much information to take in. The second victim was Elizabeth Tolbert, a harpy. The Glamour maintained on her body after death allows her to appear human, but she normally appears anything but. From what I was able to gather, she worked as an accountant at World Views Bank. This coincides with the official records except that she dealt almost exclusively with the accounts of supernatural beings."

"And the latest victims?"

Sherlock directed the question at Benedicta, but kept his eye on John instead. These victims were the ones who had a connection to John. Now that they knew about the supernatural world, John would feel open to telling them about his connection as well.

"Miranda was a werelioness from Africa. The werecats are strongest and go back the farthest in that part of the world, as well as South America. She and Francisco had been married for about 180 years, if I remember correctly."

"Do weres normally live that long?"

"No, but Francisco was a vampire and magical bonds influence such things in mates. Francisco's magic prolonged her life. He was also," here Benedicta looked at John and waited for his nod before continuing, "John's spawn. In other words, John is the one who turned him into a vampire."

"So when you said he was like a son to you…"

"He had been. As a vampire, I raised him. The whole experience is like being born again. I hadn't seen him in almost a hundred years, though. He was in Africa when I decided to get out of this life and join the war. He probably came here to look for me, since he hadn't heard from me in so long."

"It took him a hundred years to come looking?"

"Time doesn't pass the same way for us as it does for humans. The older one is, the less time it feels like is passing. For Francisco and myself, a hundred years is more like a month or two."

Sherlock's mind reeled with that information and its implications. His musings were interrupted, however, by Lestrade asking an unexpected question.

"Hold on. If Francisco was your spawn, wouldn't you have felt something through your…bond or whatever when he was killed? It seemed like you didn't know until you saw the crime scene photo."

Everyone in the room stared at the older man and he shifted uncomfortably.

"What? I like monster movies."

John cracked a smile.

"Normally, you would be exactly right. However, each supernatural being has certain magical properties to it. Without boring you with a lot of details, a vampire mating with a were can have effects on the bond between that vampire and its creator. Between that and the after effects from the bullet wound, I didn't feel anything when Francisco died…It is not something I will forget easily."

It didn't take someone who knew John as well as Sherlock to hear the guilt in his voice. Lestrade bowed his head in John's direction.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry." His fists clenched at his side. "When we find the one who did this, I will make sure he pays dearly for what he has done. Our justice system is, as you may imagine, much different than yours."

Benedicta hummed, no doubt agreeing.

"You're going to have to find him first. I still say that Nic's your best bet. His annual ball is the night after tomorrow. You know you're always invited."

"Who is this Nic?"

John sighed and hung his head, obviously reluctant to even talk about it. Sherlock, however, recognized it as exasperated reluctance instead of worried about danger reluctance. It was all good.

"Nicholas Flamel is an alchemist. He is famous for creating the Sorcerer's Stone, which granted him eternal youth. He's rather a…handful."

Benedicta glared at him sternly.

"He's also a genius and is our best bet of finding out who is committing these murders and why. If it's for a ritual, which it probably is, then he's the guy to go to if we want to find out what for."

Sherlock raised his chin.

"He's throwing a ball the day after tomorrow, you said?"

A sharp nod from the woman.

"We'll be there. Is there a dress code?"

Benedicta's smile stretched across her entire face at his inquiry and Sherlock imagined for a moment that it was filled with sharp teeth. Then again, maybe it was.

"Oh, please. John has the worst fashion sense of anyone I've ever met. There's no way I'm letting him choose his own clothes. I'll take care of everything and call with the details tomorrow. For now, let's get you humans home and to bed. There have been quite a few shocks for you to handle."

Sherlock wanted to scoff and brush the suggestion aside, but he really was tired. Without wasting any time, Benedicta called for a car and not thirty minutes later John, Sherlock, and Lestrade were back at 221B. It had been decided that the DI would kip on their couch for the night. It wasn't long before everyone was asleep.

Except for, that was, a certain blonde vampire who stayed awake to watch over his friends. Only time would tell what the future held for their relationship.


	4. New Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade learn a little bit more about the world they've stumbled into.

Sherlock woke up the next morning to a certain amount of disorientation. This was what he hated so much about sleeping during cases. Brilliant though his mind was, he was not a quick riser. It would sometimes take him as much as twenty minutes to get back his full brain function. The lethargy was not something he enjoyed.

Dragging himself out of bed, Sherlock grimaced as his bare feet hit the floor. Why was it that wooden floors were always so cold? Maybe he should get a rug. Or install a heating system under the floorboards. It could be his next experiment. Surely John wouldn't mind.

Oh, right. John.

The events of the night before came filtering back to Sherlock. Truly, it was rather remarkable how the memory of finding out his flat mate and best friend was secretly a vampire could wake him up so quickly.

Throwing on his robe, Sherlock padded into the living room. Lestrade was still sprawled across the couch, one leg hanging off the side. A line of drool led from the corner of his mouth down his chin. Sherlock frowned at the thought of it getting on the couch, but continued past anyway. He was much more interested in finding John and getting more information on this new development. A clinking from the kitchen drew his attention.

Clutching the blue silk to his frame, it really was too cold in the morning, Sherlock crossed the living room in two strides and rounded the corner into the kitchen. What he saw sent him flying at his flat mate. John stood at the kitchen table, knife in one hand, slitting his wrist and letting the blood fall into a beaker from Sherlock's chemistry set.

Mere seconds later, the brunette was beside him, pressing a washcloth against the wound and applying pressure. He rounded on John in anger.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?! Honestly, John, I would have thought you were better than this. A doctor should know not to make a cut that deep. Quickly, sit down. The blood loss will begin to affect your balance soon."

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Calm down!"

Icy blue-grey eyes snapped up at the stern tone in John's voice.

"It's okay. Watch."

The blonde's tanned hand wrapped gently around his own and lifted the towel. Sherlock's gaze followed the movement, locking in on where the blade had cut through John's skin. Already, only a roped, angry-looking scar was left. As the brunette watched with fascination, the mark healed over to a faint pale mark before fading completely.

Trembling slightly, Sherlock reached out with the hand that wasn't still in John's gentle hold. He ran his fingers over where the wound had been, the area still sticky with blood. Even to the touch, the skin was smooth and unmarked. He felt John shiver slightly under his touch and immediately withdrew his hand. The blonde released both him and the towel moments later.

"How?"

"Vampires heal at a much accelerated rate. Our bodies are no harder or sturdier than a normal human's, but we heal incredibly fast. Non-magical wounds will often only take a few moments to heal, depending on the severity. Often, we are able to 'conquer death' by our bodies healing before our brains cease to function. Once, during the Crusades, a knight impaled me through the chest with a spear." His, "Entirely on accident," was added in such an off-hand manner that Sherlock nearly got mad all over again, but John was still talking. "The blow pierced my heart, but the spear got pulled out within the next minute and my body was able to heal itself."

"That's no excuse."

"I'm sorry?"

"Accelerated healing is no excuse for harming yourself."

John blinked in surprise before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, God! I hadn't even thought about how this must've looked!" He tried to smother his chuckles. "I'm sorry for the scare, Sherlock, but I wasn't cutting to harm myself. I need magical blood for a potion."

He gestured to the beaker on the kitchen table. Sherlock took note of the fact that the level of blood already in the container meant that John had cut his wrist open at least several times before Sherlock had walked in on him. He didn't find the thought pleasing.

"What kind of spell?"

A smile burst onto John's face.

"I figured, especially since we'll all be going to Flamel's party tomorrow night, that it would be helpful for you and Greg to have the ability to see through Glamours. This potion will allow the two of you to bypass the Glamours that would normally hamper you. It could be useful for re-examining the bodies as well."

"That's possible?"

"I haven't made it in a long time, so I don't completely remember how…but it's coming back to me. I should be able to get it done in an hour or so…hopefully."

"Is it magic?"

"Alchemy, actually. You'd probably like it. Alchemy is all based on science, but with magical elements. Even without magical abilities, it's possible to be able to make the potions and such work. You just need the right ingredients. Alchemy requires magical components, but not magic itself."

John talked the consultant through what steps he had already taken and continued to explain each step as he proceeded through them. The blood had to be heated, and several items added to it, before the potion was complete. About midway through, Lestrade wandered into the kitchen and took up a place leaning against the counter. Sherlock preferred peering over John's shoulder.

John slipped in the last ingredient, nutmeg of all things, and set the beaker back on the burner to simmer for some time.

"When it changes color, it'll be ready. It should take about 30 minutes or so. I'd offer for us to get breakfast, but you probably won't want anything in your stomach when you drink this. It can turn things a little topsy-turvy."

There was an awkward silence for a few moments before Lestrade shifted uncomfortably and spoke.

"So are we going to talk about what happened last night?"

John sighed and moved to the stove, beginning the motions for making tea. He set out three mugs.

"I suppose it would be a good time to do so." His gaze found Sherlock's and the brunette's lips quirked at his next sentence. "Alright. You've got questions."

"How old are you?"

Despite his derision for Lestrade's obvious first question, Sherlock couldn't help but find himself interested, especially after John's answer.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? How do you not know?"

John frowned as he put the kettle back on the stove, flicking on the eye.

"I am one of a handful of vampires that have been around since near the beginning of history. Sherlock, you once described your mind as a processor that only had so much space, so you deleted things that weren't necessary. I have been around so long that I have seen a great many things, but that doesn't mean I remember them all. It's hard to keep count when you don't remember. By my best estimation I would say I'm about…3,000 years old."

"Three thousand?!"

Lestrade looked as if he'd been punched in the face and Sherlock had to admit a similar feeling. He knew his mouth was hanging open and forced it closed with a sharp 'clack' of teeth. John just looked sheepish.

"Were you turned?"

John had said he didn't remember much, but Sherlock still wanted to know.

"It's possible, but none of us who were alive back then really know. It's more likely that we evolved from early humans. Benedicta has done more research in that area, so she'd be able to tell you more."

"Is she as old are you?"

John shook his head at Lestrade's question.

"Benedicta is what we call Second Generation. She is the spawn of one of the original vampires, Udi. He is a…friend. Benedicta is only…1,500 years old? Maybe 2,000? You'd be surprised how the years blur together."

Lestrade muttered something under his breath that sounded surprisingly like, "I'm sure." John ignored it in favor of fixing the tea bags in the mugs he'd set out. The water would be boiling soon. Sherlock was busy calculating everything he knew about John against this information. One problem continually asserted itself.

"Harriet."

That made John's shoulders tense. A moment later, though, his shoulders slumped. He turned away from the other two to rest his hands against the edge of the counter.

"I was trying to escape the supernatural world, if only for a while. That's easier to do if you have an identity that isn't connected."

"John Watson doesn't exist."

"He did. Once. John Watson died at the age of five, Harriet was only a tad older. John is my real name, though it's been translated over the years, so it was easy to slip into the role."

"How did she not notice that someone had taken the identity of her dead brother? She gave you her phone when you returned from the war. Why would she do that for a stranger?" There was a brief pause as Sherlock's mind worked. "Oh…"

Lestrade just looked confused.

"What?"

"She doesn't know. She thinks you actually are her brother. Was it a spell?"

"No."

The intensity in John's voice told Sherlock that is was the truth, and also that he actually cared about the woman. For a moment, the anger on John's face from the insinuation alarmed his flat mate, but the kettle whistled and it seemed to bring him back to himself. He jumped in surprise before turning to the stove and finishing the tea. Several moments passed in silence as John passed the teas around and sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

"Harriet it sick. She was born with a mental illness that went out of control when her brother died. She was convinced that he was still alive and that her parents and the doctors were keeping him away from her. Apparently, we share some vague resemblance and she immediately transferred the identity of her brother onto me. It was easy to assume the rest of his life after that. She's not an alcoholic. The tremors came from her anti-psychotic medication. Clara left her because she couldn't handle the stress. She'd tried so hard. I really did like her."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, not sure what to say. John's pain hung heavy in the air and it was just another example of how John was so compassionate. He wished he could say something to his flat mate to ease his discomfort, but he was the first to admit he wasn't very good with comfort. Luckily, Lestrade was a bit more proficient.

"She's lucky to have you."

John shrugged off the sentiment, but Sherlock could tell it made him feel a bit better. He decided it was time to change the subject.

"You mentioned that Benedicta was Second Generation. How many Generations are there?"

"I've heard of someone who was up to 57th Generation. The higher the Generation, the less powerful a vampire is. That being said, there isn't too much of a difference between one generation and the next. A 12th Generation vampire could be more powerful that a 10th Generation if the 12th Generation vampire has been alive longer."

"That sounds complicated."

"Yeah. It kind of is. You get used to it, though, Greg."

The DI shook his head.

"Just when I thought this world couldn't get any weirder. How many of our cold cases went unsolved because of a magical element?"

"I wouldn't be able to say without looking at the individual cases and even then it could be hard to tell. We've had a very long time to learn how to hide ourselves effectively in human society. I can tell you this, though, that most of those cases were taken care of. Each supernatural species takes care of their own. It's likely that those cases were looked into and solved by other super naturals."

"You have your own police force?"

"Not so officially. Mostly, if you're a murder victim, you hope you have friends who will look into it."

"Seems like a lot of vigilante justice if you ask me."

"It is. But we have strict laws about it. There are also certain members of the community that can be contacted if an individual does not wish to, or can't, conduct the investigation on their own. They're like sanctioned private investigators."

John opened his mouth to continue, but a glance at the table had him setting aside his tea. Sherlock followed his gaze to find that the beaker was now filled with a black concoction, instead of the dark red from earlier. John grabbed the beaker with a towel, mindful of its heat, along with two glasses. Switching off the burner, he poured the potion between the two glasses. It moved sluggishly and appeared to have small chunks in it.

"Now, I know this doesn't look very appetizing, and it really doesn't taste much better, but it'll help you see all the things you normally can't." His eyes twinkled merrily as he glanced at Sherlock and the brunette felt warmth spreading in his chest. It was a feeling he was starting to associate with John. "That, or I made it wrong and you'll have a few hours of wild hallucinations before puking your guts out."

John suddenly looked sheepish and hesitant about handing the glasses over. With a snort of derision Sherlock snatched one of the glasses from him, grimacing at the taste and texture of the substance as he knocked it back.

For a moment, nothing happened and Sherlock just stared at John and Lestrade as they watched him with trepidation. Then his entire world shifted. He lost his grip on the glass as his hand spasmed and it shattered against the kitchen floor. John probably could have caught it with the impressive speed he'd displayed the previous night, but he was too busy catching Sherlock.

One moment he was looking at his companions, the next Sherlock found himself staring up at John's concerned face while the ceiling in the background swam behind him. How had the ceiling moved to where the wall was supposed to be? He tried to look up at where the ceiling was supposed to be, but John's hand was on his face, cupping one cheek and keeping his face looking at the blonde.

John was saying something and Sherlock should have been paying attention, but all Sherlock could focus on was how good John's palm felt against his cheek. He pressed into the appendage, almost nuzzling it, and let out a sound of pleasure he'd only ever heard before from cats or other small animals.

His eyes fluttered open (when had he closed them?) to see the side of John's face. He was talking over his shoulder to someone. Moments later, Lestrade appeared over the doctor's shoulder with a damp washcloth and was pressing it to Sherlock's forehead. The damp coolness felt wonderful against his heated brow. When had it gotten so hot?

Sherlock's world shifted again as he was swept up into John's arms, experiencing momentary weightlessness. The blonde's sweater felt soft against Sherlock's cheek and he found himself not minding the indignity of the bridal carry in the slightest. His mind momentary provided the funny image of short, stocky John bundling tall, lanky Sherlock into his arms and he might have laughed. He wasn't sure.

He was suddenly engulfed in plush softness and Sherlock realized he'd been deposited on the couch. Now he really hoped Lestrade hadn't drooled on it. What felt like hours later, but was likely only a few minutes, Sherlock began to return to himself. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, but couldn't seem to get rid of the shiny quality everything seemed to have.

He struggled to get up as he called for his flat mate.

"JOHN!"

The blonde appeared almost instantly beside him, steadying him. He must have used his superior speed. Gaze fixed on his flat mate, Sherlock found himself fascinated by the changes to John's appearance. Though he appeared to be the same man, there was an undercurrent of…something beneath his skin. It was shiny and wave-like. Sherlock brought a hand up to skim his fingers across John's cheekbone and the other stared at him in surprise.

Sherlock barely noticed, too fascinated in the examination. John's eyes fluttered shut and his muscles tightened in restraint as Sherlock's fingers trailed lower, down his neck. The brunette glanced up, saw John's expression, and instantly jerked his hand back. He hadn't meant to make the other man uncomfortable.

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

"That…under your skin…"

Lestrade had appeared behind John, coming in from the kitchen. He looked worried, but Sherlock's line of questioning only seemed to bring John relief. He was grinning widely now.

"You can see it! Excellent! That, Sherlock Holmes, is magic. What you are seeing ifsthe flow of magic through my body. Anything that has magical properties or has been around magic for an extended period of time will be marked like that."

Sherlock had to resist the urge to reach for John's face again, this time to trace the lines of that smile. His skin tingled where his fingers had trailed across John's skin. Steady on his feet now, he stepped away from John, removing himself from temptation. Instead, he gazed around the room.

Most of the things in 221B appeared largely un-magical. However, there were several items which drew Sherlock's attention; a pair of silver candle sticks a family had presented him after helping to find the missing mother, a set of playing cards he'd bought in a thrift store some years before, a sculpture of a mermaid that had come from one of John's girlfriends, and, most interesting of all, his skull. He flitted between the items, picking each one up and examining it carefully. He dimly registered Lestrade taking the potion in the background and having a similar, vertigo-inspired reaction.

While Sherlock and the DI adjust to their new-found sight, John roots around the flat. He eventually comes up with a gold-embossed invitation that leaked magic like a bad faucet and set it on his desk. Rubbing his hands together, he grinned at the others.

"Alright, so you've seen what's here is the flat. Want to go out and see some more? We could pop down to the café two blocks over, get breakfast, and you can see exactly how much of London you've been missing!"

Despite the repeated references to John trying to get away from the super natural community, Sherlock noticed how excited the blonde seemed to be able to share it with them. He grabbed his coat and the skull and followed the other two out the door. It wasn't until they actually arrived at the café that John seemed to notice the addition to their company.

"You brought the skull?"

Instead of replying, he simply held the object out to John. With a sigh, the man took it. John looked down at the skulls face. Sherlock knew John wouldn't need him to explain what he wanted.

"It has magical properties, but it isn't magical on its own. I looked into it shortly after I moved in. It will provide a measure of protection for the one bearing it."

"Like a shield?"

"Nothing quite so overt, Greg. It simply…persuades others that they don't really want to harm the one holding the skull. If someone is out to kill you, it won't work quite so well. However, if you have someone shooting at you, they are more likely to miss."

Sherlock took the skull back and looked at it thoughtfully. Could be useful.

"So, what other secrets is the unassuming John Watson hiding? You walk around with that pleasant smile and those awful sweaters," John blustered at Lestrade calling his sweaters awful, but the Di ignored him, "but you're not fooling me. First you shoot that cabbie, now you turn out to be an ancient vampire. What else have you got up your sleeve?"

Sherlock looked at the DI with surprise.

"You knew about the cabbie?"

"Of course I knew! You really think I'm a bloody idiot, don't you?"

"Well, obviously. It appears you are not quite as bad as I thought, though."

"See, it's moments like these I wish John had let you take that damn pill."

Sherlock was about to deliver a scathing reply when John cut him off.

"Alright, children. Let's behave. We are in public, after all."

Sherlock huffed, but Lestrade just rolled his eyes. John looked exasperated and caught the attention of their waitress to order coffee and food. While the man was a veritable tea addict, Sherlock had noticed he was more likely to order coffee when out. Probably, this was because there was a higher likelihood of drinkable coffee than tea. Once their orders were placed, John settled in once again.

"To answer your question, Greg, there's really nothing all that spectacular about me. I've lived for a long time and I've picked things up here and there, but nothing more than a normal person would. I speak seven languages; English, Latin, Greek, French, German, Spanish, and Russian. Benedicta speaks over 40, though, so it's really not all that impressive. Stop looking at me like that."

Lestrade clamped his mouth shut and Sherlock struggled to keep his own surprise off his face.

"Any instruments?"

"I played piano, but I haven't touched one in probably a hundred years."

A small voice in the back of Sherlock's head noted how well a piano would complement the violin and Sherlock told it to shut up with a level of vehemence he normally only reserved for Mycroft.

"Where did you learn?"

Now John looked sheepish and Sherlock could tell he was about to reveal something impressive. Only John could find bragging so embarrassing.

"Beethoven…"

Lestrade's jaw had dropped again, Sherlock's joining it.

"Beethoven taught you how to play the piano?!"

John's entire face was red with embarrassment and he ducked his head down. His relief was nearly palpable when the waitress returned to deliver their food.

"So what's with this eating thing?"

"I'm sorry?"

Lestrade gestured with his fork at John's omelet and toast.

"I've seen you eat before and you're eating now, but aren't vampires supposed to drink blood?"

"Ah. Right. Blood is required to keep our bodies functioning, since we are unable to produce our own. The blood we drink is imbued with the magic our bodies make and is then used when we use our abilities, such as the speed you saw last night. The less magic we use, the less we have to drink. Other than that, our bodies run on the same nutrients as a normal human's. We still need to eat."

"So how do you…you know…"

"Where do you get your victims from?"

As ever, Sherlock wasn't one for beating around the bush.

"I get blood from the clinic. A pack every week or two is generally enough to sustain me, since I haven't been using much magic lately. With last night and this morning, though, I'll likely have to grab a bag tonight or tomorrow morning." John glanced at the street and a smile broke out. "Alright, both of you check out the woman with the shopping cart."

Sure enough, when Sherlock and Lestrade turned, there was a woman pushing a shopping cart down the street. She was a bit older and obviously homeless, though not a member of Sherlock's network. What was odd about her, though, was that there was a second image over-laying the first. The creature behind the cart was hunched over, with skin the color of stone and looked just as hard. Tusks jutted out from under quivering jowls and cracked claws gripped the cart. Sherlock stared in fascination while Lestrade startled backwards.

"What the Hell is that?"

Thankfully, the DI retained enough brain function from his prolonged exposure to Anderson to keep his voice down.

"That," John leaned forward, "is a troll. I've seen her in the neighborhood before on my way to work. She usually passes the café around this time."

"Are they always so…"

"She's one of the prettier ones."

Lestrade grimaced. The three of them watched as the creature stomped down the street and around a corner. Sherlock turned to the blonde.

"Are there many supernatural creatures here in London? What's the ratio?"

"The ratio? Uh…maybe one to every ten humans or so? I'm afraid I don't quite know. We're not uncommon, though."

"So why is it that we see her troll image superimposed over her human image, but we only see your magic? Why is it that we don't see your form from last night?"

John shifted uncomfortably and took a big bite of his omelet to give him some time to answer.

"There are certain creatures, vampires and weres included, who do not have a 'true form' as you might call it. When we change forms, it is not the product of dropping a Glamour. We actually physically change from one from to another. What you saw last night was not my most…monstrous transformation. Sometimes when I have to go through a lot of healing, though, the transformation will start to peak through."

Sherlock wanted to ask more about his transformation, but John's expression told him not to. Once again, it was Lestrade who changed the subject and saved the day.

"So, how many vampires have you created?"

"Not as many as most. Francisco, of course, you already know about, but there are a few others. My line only has nine generations and there are under a thousand of us total. I've never been much one for creating spawn for the sake of it."

They'd eaten and were on their way back to the flat when the conversation turned back to John's abilities as a vampire.

"Vampires have a number of abilities. Each...I guess you could call it a breed, of vampire has a different set of abilities. The healing is one, the speed another, for my kind. It's not just that we can run incredibly fast, though. We can only really use our speed over short distances. While our bodies can move, our minds can't process the information we see fast enough for us to be able to keep up. Really, we can only go places we can already see. Then there's the ability to turn into fog, which comes in handy more often than you'd think. I can demonstrate when we get back to the flat. Finally, vampires have an ability we call Enticement. It makes us attractive to a target. It's a hunting ability."

"You can do this to anyone? What does it do?"

"Mostly, it just makes them perceive the vampire as very attractive and trustworthy. In a sense, it makes the victim falsely fall in love. At least that's how it works for my type of vampire. Each one differs a bit." Anticipating Sherlock's question, he continued. "There are five vampire types left. There were six, but then Dracula died. It's one for each of the original vampires, such as Udi and myself."

"Do it. I want to see this in action."

"Sherlock, I am not just going to Entice a random stranger just because you want me to."

"Then do it on me."

John looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Well, if you won't do it to someone else then it only seems logical for you to do it to me. You'd only need to do it for a minute or so, just long enough for me to collect some data."

John sighed.

"Fine. But not to you. Pick someone else."

Lestrade grinned wolfishly and pointed to an American tourist walking on the other side of the street. He was a bit heavyset, but in the way that said he had a lot of muscle behind it and a sour expression. His jeans were worn, indicating a higher level of care for his work than his appearance. The wedding band on his finger indicated he'd been dragged on this vacation by his wife but a fight had left him up to his own devices while she shopped. His expression when he saw John approaching said he was deeply homophobic.

Sherlock and Lestrade watched as John greeted the man in a pleasant manner, only to be brushed aside with a rude comment. The blonde laughed it off and said something else, his words accompanied by a cloud of magic that moved from John's body to swirl around the other man. Instantly, Sherlock saw how his muscles relaxed and his frown turned up into an easy smile. John gestured for him to follow and the man trotted easily back across the street after John.

"Sherlock, Lestrade, this is Douglas."

The man raised a hand in greeting, but didn't turn his gaze away from John. In fact, his entire body was angled towards the blonde, showing a clear inclination towards his presence. Sherlock grinned widely.

"Fascinating…"

"Yes, yes. Are you done now?"

Sherlock nodded reluctantly, not liking John's clear displeasure with the situation. The blonde turned to the man and Sherlock's eyes watched as much of the cloud surrounding the man dissipated. Traces of it, though, still hung around him.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Douglas."

The man looked a bit confused, but smiled anyway.

"You, too, Doctor. I hope to see you again sometime."

With that, the man turned and left while the trio finished the trip to Baker Street. John and Lestrade chatted more about the different abilities of vampires while Sherlock just listened. It was amazing the amount of new information available to him now. Lestrade left them at the door to the flat, needing to change and show his face at work. They agreed to meet at the morgue the following morning to look at the bodies again.

Sherlock spent the majority of the rest of the day watching John putter around the flat, consumed by his own thoughts. The blonde got in contact with his friend Bill Murray and they arranged for Bill to meet them at the flat later in the week as he was still in Afghanistan and it would take him some time to get back. Later on in the evening, John got a call from Benedicta. She had the clothes taken care of and would bring them by tomorrow afternoon.

After that, the flat was consumed by an awkward silence. The two flat mates danced around each other, each a bit unsure of where they stood. It was just getting dark when Sherlock moved to the doorway of the kitchen, looking in at John making tea.

"Would you ever have told me? That you were a vampire?"

"I imagine you would have figured it out eventually. You're quite good at that."

"But would you ever have told me?"

The muscle in John's jaw told Sherlock the answer before the man did.

"…No."

They didn't speak again until Sherlock was preparing for bed. John knocked on the door to his room before entering.

"Listen, Sherlock…I meant what I said earlier, about not telling you, but it wasn't because I wanted to keep you out of this part of my life. It's just…bad things happen to humans who know about the supernatural world. I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you…"

The brunette felt a tension in himself ease.

"I am not so easy to get rid of, John."

That seemed to break the tension between them and John smiled. The two continued to talk for several hours and, eventually, Sherlock fell asleep to the blonde telling him stories of his past.


	5. Morgue to Life Than This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John head to the morgue to see what they can find out from the bodies, now that they aren't hidden behind glamours.

The next day, Sherlock woke up to find John in the kitchen again. Instead of slicing open his wrist, though, he was scrambling eggs. Ten minutes later found them sitting at the table, Sherlock with eggs and tea to John's eggs and blood. He'd made a run to the surgery early that morning to snag a bag. Sherlock watched with fascination as he cut a small hole in the top, stuck a straw in, and drank the blood like a juice box.

"Do you always drink it like that?"

"Nowadays, yeah. It's easy and quick. I haven't had blood directly from a human in over a hundred years."

Sherlock appreciated John's straightforward attitude. As ever, John's way of dispatching with useless information was one of the things he valued most about their relationship.

"Do you have an aversion to drinking directly from a victim? Or is it simply that bagged blood is more convenient?"

John shrugged and tucked into his eggs, giving Sherlock a pointed look that told him to eat.

"Drinking directly from a human gives them a higher chance of being turned into a vampire. In order for a human to turn, they have to drink a vampire's blood and that same vampire has to drink from them. However, it isn't unheard of that the blood from a different vampire than the one doing the biting can turn a human. Drinking indirectly eliminates that risk."

They spoke a bit more as they ate, and were soon off to the morgue after a brief conversation in which John explained that, "No, Sherlock, you may not harvest tissue sample from me to run experiments on it." It was ridiculous, really, because he would just get the samples another way and it was all in the name of science. Lestrade met them on the curb.

"I've already had Molly pull the bodies out and vacate the morgue. I figured that this was an examination better done in private." He nodded in Sherlock's direction as he led them through the halls, a look of wonder on his face. "Just wait until you see them. You're going to love this."

They entered the morgue to find all four bodies set out on slabs. Sherlock was fascinated how their features had changed. Examining the bodies in order, he started with Darren Shaw.

His skin had taken on the color and texture of wood. A closer inspection revealed it to be that of the Douglas Fir, a conclusion supported by the green, pine straw-like hair. Small red berries peeked out from under the fringe. Lifting up each eyelid, Sherlock shined a light into each red-tinted eye. Sherlock also noted that his limbs were disproportionately long. His fingers alone were easily six inches.

"Do all Fae look so…natural?"

He threw the question over his shoulder at John.

"Generally, yeah. Not all of them look like trees, though. The different Courts correspond with the variety of plants you'll see as part of their members. Darren was from the Winter Court, thus the pine tree."

"Douglas Fir."

"I'm sorry."

"His features are derived from the Douglas Fir."

John rolled his eyes with a muttered, "Of course," but Sherlock ignored him in favor of moving on to the next victim, Liz Tolbert. The consultant had to admit that, of all the victims, she was the most impressive so far.

She remained the same height, 5'7", but that was just about the only thing that remained the same. Feathers decorated her thin frame and her arms were more like wings with clawed hands at the end. Her lower legs and feet were like those of a bird. Her teeth were sharpened and angled slightly forward, hinting at a beak.

Still, this new appearance did not diminish his original findings. The feathers were dirty, patchy in areas, and her claws were chipped. A closer inspection of the claws on her feet revealed tufts of hair and feather stuck in the cracks. She'd been doing her own hunting, then.

"What are the hunting patterns of Harpies?"

John's eyebrows shot up.

"They generally don't anymore, at least not for survival. There are some reservations that cater to Harpies, but they're more for sport than anything else. Harpies are a restless species, especially Valkyries like her. That's a particular Clan. Harpies are organized into Clan and then into flocks. There are, of course, a few that live on their own, though. Mostly, it's those whose mate has died."

"Ah. Like geese."

Lestrade looked lost.

"Geese."

Sherlock rolled his eyes while John answered, instead moving onto Francisco Torres.

"They mate for life."

Francisco's appearance was pretty similar to John's the other night. His skin was tinted with grey, but not the usual grey of death. Instead, it was a darker color, much like the skin of a bat. His fangs hung over his lip and his eyes were black as night. Movement caught Sherlock's eye and his gaze was drawn to where John was tracing his fingers along Francisco's clawed hands. His eyes were full of pain.

"What do you see?"

John's eyes flickered to his, surprised, but he was far too used to being Sherlock's flat mate to question it for long.

"He's partially transformed. The killer couldn't have taken him completely by surprise. That means he knew what was coming. Miranda isn't transformed. That tells me that whoever the killer is, he didn't pose enough of a threat for them to take him seriously, just get pissed off. Francisco is normally pretty easy going, but he's not someone you want to deal with angry."

"So the killer is likely not physically imposing, very normal-looking or small."

"More likely the former. Those two weren't likely to underestimate someone based on size."

Sherlock let his eyes rake over John's body, which didn't go unnoticed and the blonde glared at him.

"No, I suppose not." He moved back to the former victims. "I notice that Ms. Tolbert's frame is very light. I expect this is a characteristic of all Harpies?"

"They have hollow bones and they are much thinner than mine or yours. It's what keeps their weight down enough that they can fly. The downside is that it is very easy to break them. The talons, though, are wicked sharp."

"Personal experience?"

"I had an encounter back in the 1840's with a particularly vicious Harpy male." He rubbed a hand unconsciously across his stomach. "He was young and out on his first Blood Run, a tradition for the Harpies which pretty much means free hunting. They don't practice it anymore. This particular bird thought that meant he could bag himself a vampire to bring back and brag. It took me three days to sort out my intestines. He wasn't so lucky."

Sherlock winced inwardly and turned away from the woman. He'd learned pretty quickly that most of John's memories erred a bit on the bloody side. It seemed that every topic had John bringing forth an anecdote of some time he'd almost died. It was enough to make the brunette want to wrap him in cotton and lock him in a room.

"And Darren Clark? Chemically speaking, exactly how much does his skin differ from the actual bark of the Douglas Fir? I notice that it is harder than normal flesh."

"Uh…I don't know. I'd suggest you save your questions like that for Flamel. He's a scientist, in his own way. Honestly, I think the two of you will get along quite well. You are very similar…God, help us."

Sherlock spared a moment to give John a disproving glare before returning to the corpse. Lestrade stood off to the side rather awkwardly.

"Have you got anything new?"

"Yes. Looks promising."

He used a scalpel to remove a few pieces of bark-flesh from the Fae. However well John thought he and Flamel would get along, Sherlock preferred to do his own research. Samples were also collected from the other three victims. Both the Harpy and Francisco had their fingernails scraped. They both were more likely to have attacked their killer. Sherlock also swabbed Francisco's mouth, in case there had been biting involved. Miranda lost a piece of her fingernails for DNA study.

It wasn't long before Lestrade was headed back to NSY while John and Sherlock headed up into the labs. The brunette had just settled in beside his usual microscope to study Darren Clark's skin while a machine ran the particle samples from the Harpy's fingernails when Mike Stamford popped through the door. Sherlock barely glanced at him before jerking his head up again in a double take.

The man was definitely Stamford, his bone structure and protruding belly left no question of that. However, his skin was a dark grey and tentacles hung down from his chin, wiggling and curling lazily. His eyes were larger than normal and a glassy green color, more like bulbs than actual eyes. He must have noticed Sherlock's alarmed stare because he came up short and gave him an odd look, though it was a bit hard to tell past his new features.

"Everything alright there, Sherlock?"

"What are you?"

The question had been asked in Sherlock's usual, blunt way. Still, Stamford reeled back as though he'd taken a physical blow. It was understandable, the consultant supposed, seeing as how the brunette hadn't taken the time to explain that he now knew about the supernatural world.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt something almost like a gentle pressure inside his skull. It felt alien and intrusive and he found himself suddenly on his feet, stumbling backwards as if to put physical distance between himself and the intrusion. John was by his side in a second, using that incredible speed of his. His fangs were out and barred at Stamford, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Mike."

Just like that, the pressure was gone and Sherlock sagged towards John, finding comfort in his sturdy frame. One hand was held to his head in an attempt to orient himself. What was that? Meanwhile, Mike Stamford was looking abashed.

"Sorry, John. I just panicked and needed to find out what he knew. Old habits die hard and all that. I should've known you'd just told him. It's not like I didn't know this day would come."

Now John looked confused.

"What?"

"Ever since I introduced the two of you, I knew Sherlock was going to find out about our world eventually. I mean, more likely that you'd tell him, but it wasn't going to stay a secret. I guess I was just expecting a little more warning is all. Has he asked if you sparkle, yet?"

"You knew?"

"Well, of course. Anyone who has ever met you would be able to tell that Sherlock would get under your skin. You were practically made for each other."

The suggestive phrasing didn't escape the younger Holmes brother and, judging by the blush working its way across his face, it didn't escape John's either.

"He found out last night, outside of Bloodlust. Jerome attacked us, transformed."

Mike didn't look surprised, more thoughtful.

"He never was a bright one. Didn't you kill his father?"

"Unfortunately. I tried to avoid it, but stubborn idiocy apparently runs in the family."

"Yes, yes. Now back to the question at hand. What are you?"

Sherlock had no qualms about butting into the conversation. It wasn't as if John would hold it against him and he wanted to know. All this pointless talk of the club would take forever and he was already bored.

"Daeijine Illithid, more commonly known as a Mind Flayer. We are psychic beings. Most of my kin live underground or in other dimensions and, trust me they aren't the type you want to run into. We got the nickname Mind Flayer for a reason. My race feeds off of powerful thoughts and ideas and it isn't unlikely for the source to be killed. I am one of the only Illithids who does not prescribe to the superiority complex shared by the rest of my race."

It was a testament to how long Mike had known Sherlock that he readily gave so much information. Sherlock had no problems reading the rest of the information he needed from between the lines. Clearly, the need for ideas and thoughts was what had driven Stamford to get a job teaching. His psychic ability was probably what Sherlock had felt prodding at his skull just earlier. Moreover, happy, fat Mike Stamford had the potential of being quite dangerous.

"How do your abilities work? Additionally, do explain the process by which you consume thoughts and ideas."

It took some time, but Sherlock was eventually satisfied with the information he had gleaned from the encounter. Mike and John had not been buddies from Uni, but from the late 1800's. Illithids had a rather extended life span, though they weren't immortal. All of his questions exhausted, Sherlock finally turned back to his work. It wasn't until almost three in the afternoon that he felt he'd accomplished enough to return to Baker Street.

"Lestrade will be arriving there before long, anyway. We have information to gather tonight, John, and I don't rightly feel like wasting the opportunity."

Lestrade arrived promptly at 4:30 and Benedicta followed shortly after at 5. She carted several garment bags with her and wasted no time in shoving them at the three men. Her greeting had been short and indicated that she clearly was more interested in sticking to business than in idle chit-chat.

"Let's get a move on. We're wasting daylight."

Sherlock had retreated to his room to change and was pleasantly surprised upon unzipping the garment bag. He had to admit some level of trepidation when Benedicta had insisted upon taking charge of their clothing selections. It could have easily ended up a complete disaster.

For Sherlock, the end result was a black suit, only slightly fancier than the ones he usually wore, on top of starched white shirt. What set the outfit apart was the waist-length, black, fur cape that hung from his shoulders. There was also an odd sort of rod sticking up from his right shoulder. A quick glance in the mirror revealed the ensemble to be absolutely fetching and Sherlock soon found himself back in the living room.

Somehow, Sherlock suspected magic, Benedicta had changed from her powerful skirt suit into a striking gown while Sherlock had been out of the room. The entire thing was blood red, with a large skirt made entirely of red and black feathers. The bodice seemed to have large swaths of fabric missing, displaying Benedicta's small frame and flawless skin. She smiled upon seeing him.

"Well, don't you look just delicious? Now for the finishing touch…" She swiped his skull off of the mantle and secured it onto the rod at his shoulder. "Perfect. John wanted you to have the added protection of your friend there."

"Ugh! How are you even supposed to attach this infernal thing?"

Lestrade's complaints announced his arrival to the room. The man was dressed in a suit as well, though his had no cape. Instead, the left shoulder and right hip slipped from cloth to leather seamlessly, molding into armor pieces. As he turned to the side, Sherlock spotted a fluffy black tail hanging from the back of his left shoulder. The DI was attempting to attach a buckle at his wrist, which explained the source of his complaints. Benedicta moved forward to help him.

"Doing buckles one-handed can be difficult at first, but you really should get used to it. High fashion does not compromise for convenience."

Lestrade muttered something under his breath that Sherlock didn't quite catch, but he could deduce it was something along the lines of just where high fashion belonged. Benedicta, who had moved on to mussing with the DI's hair, didn't have the same problem hearing it.

"Says quite a bit about you, doesn't it, then?" She popped him gently on the shoulder before going back to his hair. Her entire body came up short, though, as she glanced up the stairs. "OH…"

Sherlock understood immediately her reaction as his flat mate descended onto the main level. The phrase "cleans up nice" didn't even begin to describe the man before him. Sherlock had always known the man was hiding a well-toned body under his bulky sweaters, but he hadn't realized exactly how much of a difference a wardrobe change would make. Looking at the man now, he made a mental resolution to burn every last one of those offending pieces of cloth.

Unlike Lestrade's and Sherlock's own, John's suit was pure white and cut long, the jacket ending at mid-thigh. It was cut close to this figure and buttoned up the right side like a surgeon's jacket. An intricately designed, red, star-shaped cross was emblazoned over his heart, balancing the entire look. It gave John a look of power and strength that was absent in his usual clothes. In this, no one would dare question his authority.

Sherlock liked it…A lot.

As his eyes ran over his flat mate's form, his mind provided him with a number of scenarios that would put the outfit to very good use. Before he could get too involved with such carnal nonsense, though, Benedicta spoke and the topic of conversation distracted him.

"You look dazzling, John. You see? This is why I couldn't let you pick your own clothes. You're a man of distinction. Dress like it. Speaking of which, excellent timing with Jerome the other day. It was so fortunate he was in his wolf form when you had your little disagreement."

It took less than a moment for all of the pieces to slot into place.

"So the fur from our suits came for the werewolf, then?"

Lestrade startled backwards in surprise and he looked down at himself as though seriously considering ripping the whole thing off. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course," Benedicta answered, "The two of you are human, painfully so. Humans who know about the supernatural world are very uncommon. Those who actually become involved are practically unheard of. Jerome's pelt will surround the two of you with the smell of the supernatural so as not to cause any undo alarm."

"Won't someone recognize his scent, though?" Lestrade voiced his concerns.

Benedicta just waved him off.

"No one at this gathering you had the misfortune of Jerome's acquaintance will mind much that he is gone. He was more of a leech than a wolf and had no shortage of enemies."

Here John interjected.

"You have to understand, death is nothing new in our world. A lot of disagreements are settled with one side ending up dead. The upside is that most creatures have become pretty good about not holding grudges."

"Yes, well, we can talk more on the way. I have a car waiting outside and Flamel's estate isn't exactly close. Let's move, everyone."


	6. Meet 'n Greet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicholas Flamel turns out to be not quite what Sherlock was expecting...and there are more people to meet on top of that.

To say that Flamel's estate was large would be a gross understatement. An hour outside of London, it took the group nearly ten minutes to get from the front gates to his doorstep. The drive had by no means been boring, though. The entire way was lined by a fantastically landscaped garden.

Upon entering the gates, they had been greeted by large butterfly sculptures, three times the size of a man and made entirely out of plants. If that weren't enough, they fluttered through the sky and some perched on fantastical marble sculptures scattered about the area. The group also encountered giant, plant unicorns, dogs, and snakes. Sherlock had to admit he was impressed. Clearly, this Nicholas Flamel was a very powerful individual.

The house they pulled up in front of was expansive and made of white stucco, topped with black tile and glass. A circular drive corralled an intricate water fountain in which two dolphin sculptures splashed playfully. Apparently no one had bothered to tell them they'd been made of solid gold. There appeared to be several towers around the perimeter and the edges of the windows and doors were surrounded by fantastical carvings.

The owner of this house was clearly obsessed with image. If the number of sculptures was anything to go by, he also had an issue with size. Perhaps stemming from a past relationship that ended poorly? It seemed likely. It would have ended a while ago, when Flamel was just beginning to acquire his wealth, most probably. The excess display was a way to reassure himself that sacrificing the relationship had been worth it. Petty sentiment. He filed the information away for later use.

A man dressed like a butler sprang forward to open the car's doors upon their arrival in front of the manner. Each of the doors to Benedicta's limo sprang open as the man opened the one at the back. Piling out, John gave the man a nod of acknowledgement.

"Michelangelo, it's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Sir. The Master will be quite pleased with your presence as well."

"Is he expecting us?"

"Not that I have heard, though he always strives to keep the party arrangements up to par in case you drop by."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the exchange. Clearly, John and Flamel shared a much closer connection than was previously implied. Benedicta ushered them up the stairs, going over the plan as they went.

"Alright, so I'll go in first while you three hang back. It shouldn't be hard for me to locate Flamel at which point I will send you," she inclined her head towards John, "a text. I'll make sure he meets you at the bottom of the stairs." She grinned knowingly. "Though, to be fair, it would probably be harder to keep him away."

Another servant met them at the doors of the manor and became their guide to the main ball room. It did not escape Sherlock's notice that the ceiling of the coat room had vaulted ceilings. Was there anything this man did that wasn't ostentatious? It seemed that every bit of this palace screamed abundance. The consulting detective could only imagine the size of Flamel's ego.

As agreed, Benedicta went ahead once they reached the entrance of the ball room while the other three hung back. Through the curtain which kept them hidden from the party itself, they heard another servant begin to announce Benedicta's presence.

"Announcing Ben-!"

"Don't. You. Dare."

Sherlock felt a shudder run down his spine at the threat in the brunette woman's voice. John leaned close to speak quietly to them and Sherlock had to hold himself back from leaning towards the comforting warmth.

"The last time Benedicta came to one of Nic's parties, he announced her as 'Benny-bunny,' his personal nickname for her. Needless to say, she wasn't very happy about it."

Sherlock imagined she probably wouldn't be.

Barely a minute after her departure, John's mobile buzzed. Something had to be said for the woman's efficiency.

Whatever Sherlock had thought about the rest of the mansion, it was nothing compared to the opulence of the ball room as they pushed past the curtain. A tall staircase led down from their platform onto the main floor, which was made entirely out of marble with gold accents. A pool filled the far-left hand corner of the room and a glass wall right behind it revealed a large tank filled with amazing aquatic creatures, including what looked like a cross between a cat and a finned dragon that had to be at least 100 meters in length.

Following his gaze, John explained.

"It's a Seacat. They're a majestic race that has become almost extinct. The pool allows for those of Nic's guests who cannot be separated from the water to enjoy the festivities."

There was no more time to chat before the servant at the top of the platform began to speak at a volume far higher than he should have been capable. A quick glance at the blonde revealed his fangs were extended and his eyes were black once more, likely a show of power and status for the other guests. It stood to reason that, within this world, John had an image to uphold.

"Announcing Lord Doctor John von Hamish, Duke-grandee of Alba of Spain, Marquis of Aguilar de Campoo, Count of Lemos, Infante de Espana, Knight of the Round Table, Freiherrlich Uradel, Alter Adel, The Forgotten's Champion, Knight of the Cross, Founder of the Crusified, The Blood Healer, Boyar, The Much Honored Champion of the Court of Lord Lyon King of Arms, Legion's Heir, Sysselmann to the High King of Norway, Huskarl of the Royal Guard, Earl of Undershaw, First Hertug to King Hakon Magnusson, Founder of Saint Bart's Medical Hospital, Courtship of Brahesminde, Captain of Belmonte duPrie, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Grandmaster of Haidong Kumdo and Bartistu, Uniter of Packs, Keeper of the Cardinal Sins," Sherlock slid a surprised look at the blonde who was looking decidedly embarrassed as the announcer continued. A glance at Lestrade revealed a similarly shocked reaction. "Head Councilman of The Order of The Ud de I, Co-Author of the Tome of Laws, First Enforcer, Teacher of Kells, Sire of The Holy Blood, once-Gatekeeper to the Hells, and Champion of All…and companions."

As the last title rang out, John began down the stairs. It didn't take a genius to see he was uncomfortable with all the stares he was getting from the other party guests. Of the 500 or so guests present, at least half were looking at him as if he were God himself. Sherlock stayed right on his heel, glaring out in challenge as though that itself would tell the staring guests to back off. Lestrade wasn't far behind.

"For the record, Flamel made half of those titles up."

"Your flush says that's a lie. I'm surprised, though, I thought you had to be the son of a prince to warrant Infante de Espana."

That lovely flush only darkened. Funny, how Sherlock loved the color when he put it there but would readily commit murder upon anyone else who dared the same.

"I did a small favor for the King of Spain back in the 1300's. It was really no big deal but he decided to adopt me into the family as a thank you. Entirely too much."

Sherlock couldn't fight the smile that tugged at his lips as he gazed across the room.

"Only you, John…What is that?"

John followed his gaze past where a large Minotaur dressed for war and a small raccoon were carrying on a conversation to see a small group of people who looked more like bipedal bees. The seemingly female one was flanked by six males. With four legs and black and yellow striped torsos, they would have looked out of place except for the other creatures which filled the room.

"Ah, that is Queen Atta and her Royal Guard. They are Abeils, a race that is said to be an ancient ancestor of the bee that most humans are familiar with. They are very industrious, but their social customs just give me a head ache."

"That," he said, tipping his head towards the stage where a woman in a red, sequined dress was singing with an orchestra. The dress covered her face completely, but cut off into long strands just below her hips to show off her legs. Even from this distance, with her face covered, Sherlock could tell she was beautiful, "is Lady Helena, the finest songstress in the land. She's also a Banshee, so watch what you say or that voice could turn deadly. We met through the wizard Merlin."

"Back when you were a knight of the Round Table?"

Lestrade's raised eyebrows showed that he was ribbing the blonde a bit and John flushed again.

"Yes, I was known as Galahad then."

Ignoring the surprised looks, John moved on to point out some of the water creatures. There were Mermaids, Sprites, Sirens and Undines, along with any number of other creatures. Moving on from them, John pointed out a group of five African women who roamed the room in a pack.

"Those are the representatives of the five most powerful Lioness Prides in Africa. Prides exist elsewhere in the world, but none are so powerful as the African Prides."

Sherlock's gaze quickly picked out a number of other Weres dotting the room, all in various stages of the change and all various animals.

There wasn't much time for further conversation as the trio reached the bottom of the stairs. As soon as John's foot hit the marble floor, a blonde man dressed in an extremely well-made suit materialized out of the crowd, Benedicta just behind him. A colorful bird about the size of a Toucan sat on his shoulder, seemingly at home around the curly, blonde bush that reached just past the man's ears. It's long tail was draped around the stranger's shoulders like a feather boa. He was shorter that Sherlock, but still taller than John, with lean muscles and a tan that suggested he enjoyed the outdoors. His suit was black satin, but flames flickered across the fabric. It wasn't just a design, the flames actually moved and for a moment Sherlock was mesmerized. The man took a hesitant step forward, breaking the spell, and made a motion as if to reach out for John before aborting it.

"John? Did you really come?"

"It would appear so, Nic. You look good."

A bright smile broke out on the man's face and he took the final step towards them to wrap John in a warm embrace. It was in that moment that all the pieces fit together in Sherlock's head and he decided that he definitely did not like Nicholas Flamel.

He also didn't like how gentle John's eyes were as he looked at the other man, or how their hug lasted just a second too long. What he did like was that John was the one to pull away first.

"Sherlock, Greg, this is Nicholas Flamel, The Alchemist. Nic, this is my flat mate Sherlock Holmes and my good friend Gregory Lestrade."

Sherlock stuck a hand out to the new arrival.

"Such a pleasure to meet John's ex."

Despite the smile Sherlock let slip onto his face, both he and Flamel could feel the ice behind it. The blonde man gripped his hand tightly, squeezing with surprising force until Sherlock could feel the bones of his knuckles grind together. He never let the smile falter.

It did falter, however, when the man held up his left hand to show off a tasteful yet obviously expensive diamond.

"Technically, we're still married."

John's look of shock did little to ease the sickness and bile that rose up in Sherlock's throat. It felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His entire world froze for a moment before speeding up again. It felt like he was watching the entire scene from outside of his own body.

"Are you serious? Nic, that was what, 300 years ago? Wiccan marriages weren't even recognized, much less between two men."

"Ah, ah! But they are now! Besides, you'd already gotten me this gorgeous ring…"

"Wait a second, you're gay? Aren't you always the one protesting about how you and Sherlock aren't a couple?"

John rolled his eyes at the Detective Inspector and Sherlock felt a tightening in his chest that he was really starting to wonder if he should see a doctor about. Not John, though. Anyone but John.

"That's because we're not. Besides," here he shifted uncomfortably, "I said I wasn't gay…I didn't say anything about being bisexual. Having been alive as long as I have, sexuality really sort of becomes a nonissue."

"But you never said anything about it."

The look Sherlock gave John was accusatory, and if there was the tiniest hint of betrayal therein the brunette would never admit it.

"No, I didn't. It is generally easier if I just don't mention it, especially when I was in the army. But this is a topic for another time. Nic, do you have somewhere that we could talk? In private?"

Flamel's grin turned lecherous and the look he ran over John's form sent anger burning though the consulting detective where icy sickness had been just moments before. Lestrade must have noticed because he sidled over and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. If it was supposed to calm him, it didn't work.

"Oh, John, you naughty boy. I suppose I could come up with something…"

"It's not a social event, Nic. We need your help with something serious."

The sudden steel in John's voice did wonders to lift Sherlock's spirit and it took all the willpower he possessed to keep from sticking his tongue out childishly at the flamboyant blonde. It was a comfort to know that John had no lingering romantic feeling for the man, despite their retained marital attachment. That snag was an easy enough fix with some simple paperwork. It could even be worth a call to Mycroft.

Flamel huffed and looked a bit put out.

"Of course. You finally come to one of my balls and it's on business. I should have known…Follow me."

Making their way through the crowd and ignoring the stares directed at John and Flamel both, they quickly managed to get to one of the many doors which lined the room. Gilded in gold like the majority of the room, Flamel held them open for the group.

The hallway they found themselves in had walls and ceiling made entirely out of vines and flowers. The floor was a stone pathway. The plants were of a variety Sherlock was unfamiliar with and he made a mental note to try and find out more information on them later, surreptitiously snapping some pictures of them with his phone.

Flamel stepped to the head of the group and began leading them down the hall, which curved gently to the right. Now that they were out of the crowd, John dropped his vampiric features, returning instead to the average, normal-looking man Sherlock was so used to seeing. It was an almost comforting sight in the presence of so many new things, yet another thing to add to the list of feeling Sherlock would never admit to having.

"The door took us out into my garden, the wonders of portals. I swear I don't know how I would get by without them. This will take us where we want to go. So tell me, John, what have you been up to? It's not so often I see you and Benny-bunny teamed up together."

Ignoring Benedicta's death glare with practiced ease, John gave Flamel a brief overview of his time in the army and what he had been doing with Sherlock since he'd been invalided home. Sherlock's chest grew light upon witnessing the warmth and excitement John exuded while talking about their adventures together. It grew lighter still when Benedicta leaned over to speak quietly into his ear.

"If you want to kill Flamel, I know a number of excellent places to hide the body. No one would ever have to know…"

"While I appreciate the offer, you should know that I only ever do my own dirty work. Besides," he turned to her with a dangerous smile, "if I were to kill someone, no one would ever know."

She returned the smile, an impressed look in her eye. They remained side by side for the rest of the short journey into the garden, taking turns glaring a hole in Flamel's back. The tunnel let out next to a fountain with giant koi. As Sherlock watched, the four-foot fishes changed colors and darted about under the surface. Flamel withdrew a small pouch from his trouser pocket.

"I always keep some of this around, it often comes in handy when you least expect it. It is Secret Ash." He dipped his finger in the bag and brought it out covered in soot. Without further comment, he drew a line of the ash on each of their foreheads, including his own. It wasn't until he was done that he spoke again. "This will ensure that no one can overhear us. Only those with the ashes upon their brow are privy to the conversation."

The look John gave him would have wilted flowers.

"And why couldn't we just do this in the ballroom, then?"

"Are you kidding me? That would have made it completely obvious what we were doing! Besides, it's too crowded in there. Talk of evil should be done around good, beautiful things. Beautiful though many of my guests are, being good is rather subjective."

Acquiescing to this point, they began to wander the garden. As John went over the details of the case they roamed from section to section, each corner revealing something new and magnificent. When Flamel was caught up to speed, he nodded gravely.

"I am so sorry to hear about Francisco and Miranda. They were truly a wonderful pair. I can see why you got involved. I don't have too much information for you, unfortunately, but I may still be able to provide some assistance. There have been rumors going around lately about a man trying to recreate the Sorcerer's Stone, impossible though that would be. The amount of blood taken from the victims, along with the particular victims he chose would support that. The variance in magical types is certainly a well-known requirement. However, Miranda and Francisco were the only ones with enough power to provide even a shot at recreating the Stone. He'll likely realize that soon, if he hasn't already."

"So he's likely to kill again soon?"

"If he keeps to his schedule, he won't kill again until the end of this week. That being said, finding out that the blood he has harvested isn't powerful enough could launch him into a more aggressive stance. Remember when we were working on the Stone, John?"

"Of course. You were obsessed with it."

Instead of bitterness, the statement was said with a kind of fondness that made Sherlock want to take Benedicta up on her offer. A glance in the woman's direction said she knew it, too.

"It was nearly impossible to harvest enough blood of a high enough power. The only reason I was able to was because of your influence. Mind you, I was taking the blood from willing donors and not killing anyone."

It was Lestrade who brought the group back to business.

"So how do we find this guy? You said there were rumors, can we try to track him through those?"

"It's unlikely. One thing you'll learn in this world is that there are only two types of Supes, those who gossip like old hens and none of the information is right and those who won't say a word about anything. I keep an eye out for anyone trying to work with high-grade alchemy because it can be so dangerous, but most of the time I'm working with the bare minimum of information. Most of the Supernatural community brushes alchemy off as silly because it does not require magic, but a skilled practitioner can do mind-blowing things. If someone is seeking out such high level blood, though, there may be a trail. It'd be worth looking into."

"Have there been any Enforcers already called in to investigate the case?" John turned to Lestrade and Sherlock briefly, and the brunette remembered it as being one of the titles attached to John's name. "Those are the sanctioned private investigators I spoke to you about."

"Not for the Harpy woman. You know what they're like. 'Die with honor and pride or be disgraced for all eternity.' Being found dead in an alley with no signs of fighting back? I almost feel sorry for her. The Fae and the Werewolves have both gotten an Enforcer involved though. The Queen of the Winter Court apparently took quite the offence to someone killing one of her minions. She contacted Gabriel, you remember him?"

"Gabriel?!" Surprise and delight shone from John's face. "I haven't seen him for ages! How has he been?"

"The Council of Weres has settled down considerably after your display, though I think some of them are still a bit bitter over the fact that he brought in an outsider. He'd been having some trouble with them ever since that incident in the 1890's. The one where he accidentally poisoned the son of Scotland's leading were pack?" John grimaced. "The Were populace loves him, though, so there wasn't much of a threat. Besides, the only time the Scots aren't fighting everyone else is when they're too busy fighting themselves. With all that Council business sorted out, he's been able to return to free lancing as an Enforcer in recent years, with Carl of course. I heard he turned down the offer when the Winter Queen originally approached him about it, but changed his mind once Miranda and Francisco's involvement became known. The Weres backed her offer with their own, so he's basically being paid double. I'm pretty sure, though, that it's their connection to you that had him taking the job."

The significant look he gave John said that it was probably a result of whatever had happened so long ago. Sherlock's brow furrowed at the mixed signals. John's grimace insinuated a negative event, so why would this Enforcer be interested in helping him? He shifted closer to his friend in an attempt to provide some level of support and his lips quirked upward as John subconsciously moved to adapt to their shared space.

Take that, Alchemist.

Flamel was seemingly not to outdone, though. He shot a glare at Sherlock before grinning at the doctor once more.

"I invited them to the ball, of course. I could easily bring them here. No doubt an Enforcer of Gabriel's level will have found something useful."

"Thank you."

Despite his distaste for the man, Sherlock watched attentively as the alchemist went through the motions of drawing a circle on the stone walkway with chalk. The circle was filled with designs and runes that the brunette didn't recognize, but looked almost Sanskrit in origin, all flowing lines and sharp curves. He then arranged a number of items at different points around the circle, five in total. It seemed Flamel was able to store far more in his pockets than appearances gave. Likely, it was another form of alchemy.

As he worked, Flamel explained what he was doing. Just as Sherlock could not resist learning, it seemed Flamel could not resist sharing his knowledge. The similarity was not lost on the detective, nor did it please him.

"The chalk I use comes from a blend of white ash from the bones of a Wiccan, the blood of a descendent of Udi, willingly given, and the balm secreted from a Columbian Carash. It creates a bond between spaces and allows for a person in one space to cross to the other. The runes are an ancient language now forgotten to all but a few. I can't even translate what it says fully, but it is calling upon the powers to open a door between the realms. This one here," he pointed to a line of script near the center of the circle, "indicates what it is I am calling or, in this case, who. The yarrow root is an offering to the powers and symbolizes a return for the favor. The elephant's tusk gives them protection while the crow's beak allows them a guide to ensure they follow the path. Finally, the singlet ring and the cord are items that once belonged to each individual and insure the correct people are brought."

"So the only magical item is the chalk?"

Sherlock had moved closer to examine the circle, but was careful not to touch. A glance to the side showed that John was happy with the connection he and the alchemist had made. Not that it would last. The blonde was far too irritating to be able to redeem himself.

"You are correct, though the tusk I am using has a minor enchantment on it. See these engravings here?" They were of a number of African animals. "The tusk is able to bring up an image of each animal following the proper command. Though they appear quite real, they cannot touch you or anything else. It does nothing to disrupt or aid this particular ritual, though. Once the ritual is finished, the yarrow root will be magical, but not in a way usable by any creature I have yet encountered."

Sherlock nodded and moved back, curiosity set aside for the sake of the case. He knew it would be easy to spend the entire night lost in questions.

With every item in place, Flamel struck a wooden match and dropped it into the circle. Like gasoline, the entire design went up in flames, the fire jumping up to four or five feet tall in mere seconds. Sherlock took a step back against the oppressive heat and sudden wind, alarmed by the sudden change to the tranquil night. After only a moment, the flames were gone and two men stood inside of the circle, looking decidedly confused. Flamel moved forward quickly to decorate their foreheads with the ash and the sight of him seemed to dispel most of their confusion. Perhaps Flamel made a habit of appropriating his party guests from one place to another.

The shorter of the two had messy blonde hair, which Sherlock could only just barely see the tips of from under a ridiculous black and yellow jester's hat. The theme carried throughout the rest of the bewildered-looking man's outfit. Poufy velvet sleeves and shorts were worn over tights that clung to the man's too-skinny legs. Really, it was just embarrassing. His entire demeanor indicated an aversion to confrontation, going by the way his shoulders hutched slightly forward as if to protect himself. However, as if to directly contradict this, his chin was set at an angle that suggested self-confidence. Likely, he was a scientist or inventor of some kind, confident in his lab abilities but easily flustered elsewhere.

The man beside him was much more alarming, though. Standing tall, the man's eyes immediately swept the area for danger. So, he was acclimatized to violence and likely lived a very dangerous lifestyle. Curly, dark brown hair hung to his shoulders. He looked at home in his black, brocade suit, complete with cape, but Sherlock couldn't help but think he'd be more used to combat boots and cargo pants. The man's chiseled jaw tugged at his memory, though, and it took just a moment to place him.

"You're Ryan Drover."

The dark man turned to Sherlock in surprise, caution highlighting his gaze. He subtly moved so he was in front of the jester-man. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous but there was no hiding that accent.

"What do you know of Ryan Drover?"

"I know he's an Australian assassin who's landed himself on Interpol's Most Wanted list, along with half a dozen more. Interpol ties him to at least 57 murders in the last 20 years. That's quite the track record."

A hand landed on Sherlock's shoulder and he could tell by feel alone that it was John's. A glance to the side showed that Lestrade was shifting nervously, hand twitching as if he wished for something to defend himself with. Ridiculous, he didn't even carry a weapon on the job. John's hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

"Sherlock, it's alright. This," he motioned towards the two men, "is Gabriel Van Helsing, monster hunter and Enforcer. The man beside him is Carl, his partner." The way John's said partner definitely meant it wasn't just a business relationship. "Gabriel uses the name Ryan Drover much like I use the name John Watson. Every person he is connected with killing has been because they had committed a crime within the supernatural community or posed a threat to human society."

Sherlock was getting real tired of these twin identities.

"How does he know they are guilty?"

Apparently not liking being talked about as though he weren't there, it was the man himself who answered.

"I can sense evil, smell it. I have never killed except to bring down a creature of the darkness, and I do not mean the night."

"How very noble of you."

The venom in Sherlock's voice couldn't be missed and John sent him a sharp look.

"Sherlock…"

"It's alright, John. I'm used to it."

The scowl didn't leave John's face, though, and Sherlock was beginning to feel decidedly put out over the fact that the blonde wasn't on his side. Never one to claim not to be selfish, he certainly didn't like it when his blogger was turned against him. It seemed the more he saw of this world, the less he liked it. Catching Flamel's smirk out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock knew what he had to do.

"I apologize. I was caught off guard and acted rashly. John is generally an excellent judge of character and I should not have doubted his word."

The blonde in question gaped at this flat mate, a fact Sherlock chose to ignore. He was much more interested in how he had wiped that smug look right off of Flamel's face. He stepped forward and held out a hand for the man to shake.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. John and I are flat mates. This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from New Scotland Yard."

The DI stepped forward to shake hands as well, each moving on to shake Carl's hand, too. Lestrade smiled congenially.

"So how do the two of you know John?"

"Ah! Now that's a good story! Let's see…I think it was…1896? Carl and I were still working for the Vatican at the time while trying to juggle the politics involved with being on the Council, I've never done well with authority, when word came in about a vampire in Russia. I'd already killed Dracula, so they sent us off immediately."

"You'd been sent to kill John."

"Yeah, but as I said before, I can sense evil and there was not an evil bone in that man's body. It was the first time I had encountered a vampire of that persuasion."

Here, John chimed in.

"Dracula and his kin were, by far, the most warlike of the vampires. While many of us do not and have not killed in order to feed, they would go out of their way to. Dracula enjoyed suffering, especially if he could be the cause of it."

"It didn't hurt the good impression that you saved Carl's life."

"He'd fallen off a cliff! What was I supposed to do?"

"Yes, you've always had that drive to protect others. That's why you're here, correct? I have been expecting your involvement ever since I heard about Francisco and Miranda, for which I extend my deepest sympathies. You can be sure that I will not rest until their killer sees justice."

"Nor shall I."

"Didn't expect the company, though…What is this, The Hobbit?"

John's look was clearly not amused.

"While I can see how my flat mate could seem rather draconic in personality, I hope that wasn't a reference to my height."

"I wouldn't dare." The grin on his face indicated otherwise, but at least Gabriel seemed intelligent enough to know it was time to move the conversation along. "Now, as wonderful as this little reunion is, I don't think Flamel would have summoned us to the garden and applied his Secret Ash to our foreheads if it weren't for something important. What can I do for you?"

"As you already know, I'm interested in pursuing this killer. Nic told us you had taken up the case. Have you found anything? I would consider it a great favor if you would share any information you have garnered in your search."

"Hey, now, no need to go bargaining favors. You know that's not how I do my business. I'd give you the information for the asking. As far as whom this guy is, we haven't gotten far. However, we did find this not too far from the scene. It's soaked in the same stench that surrounded the alley. I'm betting it's the killer's. I was bringing it for Flamel to take a look at."

He tossed a bundle of clothe to John, who caught it with little difficulty. Unwrapping it, a golden amulet with a large, inlaid ruby was revealed. The chain it hung from, though, was broken. Flamel rolled his eyes and huffed in irritation.

"Did everyone simply come to my ball for business? Did no one come simply because of the great honor such an invitation is?"

They all ignored him, much to Sherlock's, and likely Benedicta's, glee.

"You believe it was broken in the attack?"

Helsing nodded in the DI's direction.

"Francisco was partially transformed. A vampire of his talents would have fought back against an attack."

The alley scene flashed through Sherlock's mind and the lack of disturbance to the area still bothered him. It was still a possibility, though, that the two had been attacked somewhere else. The scrapings he'd taken from under Francisco's nails would tell him more.

Flamel held out a hand and John dutifully passed the bundle along. For some reason, this compliance on John's part bothered Sherlock and he glared at the alchemist. Ignoring the brunette, Flamel examined the amulet closely. He looked up at them with a grin.

"Well, it looks like we finally have some good news. It appears that there is only one magical signature attached to this item, meaning only one person has handled it a significant amount. If it belongs to the killer, then I can track him."


	7. To Get the Ball Rolling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flamel is as uncooperative as ever, Sherlock finds out a bit more about the world he and Lestrade have stumbled into, and Carl turns out to be more of a badass than any of them thought.

"John, this is my _Annual Ball._ Do you understand what that means? You used to. I plan and prepare for this event all year and _no one_ is going to ruin it, not you and certainly not some half-baked killer who thinks he can recreate my genius."

The group had moved from the garden back toward Flamel's house and were standing outside the door to reenter the ballroom. John wanted the alchemist to use the locator spell as soon as possible, but the other blonde was resistant. Sherlock was starting to see why the two hadn't worked out. (Besides, of course, for the fact that they were totally wrong together. Really, what had John been thinking?) Now, the shorter blonde was standing with arms crossed, exuding cold fury from every pore. Flamel didn't seem bothered.

"So you're telling me that you're just going to let a killer run free for the sake of some party?"

"Oh, don't try and pull that on me, John. You and I both know that I can find that guy at any time now that I have something that belonged to him. He just killed and he won't kill again for almost a full week, a few hours are literally not going to kill anybody here. Besides, if I go in there and throw everybody out, it's going to cause a stir. It's entirely possible he could catch wind of it and figure out what we're up to. It's too risky."

"You just pulled that out of your arse."

"Maybe, but it's still sound reasoning. You know it would cause a stir so, whether or not you believe that's my true reasoning, you'll go along with it. Or are you forgetting how long I've known you for?"

John's jaw was clenched tight and Sherlock could tell he was taking great effort to hold back his anger. The ex-soldier had a strong sense of justice and would often take offence when Sherlock disregarded a victim's humanity while working on the case. He could only imagine how that feeling would intensify in this situation. Helsing and Carl both looked as if they felt they were intruding on something personal. Lestrade shifted a touch closer to John, almost as though he could hold the other man back. For Benedicta's part, she'd already placed herself between John and the alchemist, though slightly off to one side. Of any of them, she was certainly the one who would make the most difference.

However long Flamel had known John for, Sherlock had known him long enough to know this situation wouldn't come to blows. That wasn't John. That didn't lessen the threat in John's voice, though, when he spoke again.

"You have three hours. If, at the end of those three hours, you have not ended this ball and come to do the spell, I start destroying things. It'd probably cause quite the 'stir', don't you think? You always did like being the talk of the town, right?"

The looks they were giving each other had turned down right murderous and Sherlock was suddenly very glad to have missed their actual breakup. (Though, had he been there, they never would have gotten together in the first place because, really, so wrong together.)

After Flamel's begrudging agreement, the party headed back into the ballroom. They had wiped the ash from their foreheads and now had three hours to spend chatting and circulating the room. John wasn't bothering with his vampiric features this time and instead headed straight for the bar along the wall. Clearly, his fight with Flamel had affected him greatly. Lestrade and Sherlock followed after him while the others melted into the crowd. Neither of the humans really wanted to be stuck wandering this place without their guide.

That being said, Sherlock was dying to ask more questions and explaining things had always proved to be an excellent way to distract his blonde. He cast his gaze around the opulent ballroom once again to find a suitable topic to begin with when his eyes landed upon the Abeil Queen and her guard. They chatted quietly amongst themselves. By this time, John already had a glass in hand, filled with something that looked suspiciously like blood but smelled like alcohol. (Sherlock suspected a blend of the two.) He got a glass of red wine for Lestrade and Sherlock declined the offer of a drink.

"Do they produce honey?"

For a moment, John looked startled out of his irate mood before his eyes traveled across the room to the Queen. A small smile tweaked his lips.

"Why, Sherlock, I had no idea you had such an interest in bees. The answer is, yes, they produce honey. However, their honey is a bit different than what you might expect. They imbue the honey with their ability to change an object's shape. It's called Substance Particle Manipulation. Anyone who eats the honey will gain the ability for a short amount of time, depending on the amount consumed. Of course, it's an extremely valuable commodity," he said in response to the thoughtful look that crossed Sherlock's face. "They don't just go handing it out. You have to trade for it and only the Queen has the power to approve such things."

"So you must bring something that is seen as valuable in her eyes."

"Indeed."

"Hold up a mo. What, exactly, is this Substance Particle Manipulation? They can what? Bend objects with their mind? 'There is no spoon.' And all that?"

Lestrade seemed torn between the fact that it sounded entirely absurd while, at the same time, realizing that just about everything they had encountered so far was. After all, they were talking about humanoid bees. It seemed the irony was lost on their blonde companion, however.

"Not with their mind, no. It allows someone with the ability to easy sculpt matter with their hands. For example, Abeils are known for their honeycomb-style living arrangements. Often, they sculpt these spaces out of solid rock. Instead of spending hours of hard labor they simply use this ability to turn the stone to something more akin to clay in their hands. Skilled sculpting still requires a skilled artist, but it eliminates the need for tools."

"Fascinating…"

Sherlock was so caught up in his study of the creatures that he missed John's wolfish grin until the blonde spoke again.

"Would you like to meet her? I've had some interactions with the Abiel queendom before and would be happy to introduce you."

It would have taken someone on the same intellectual level as Anderson to miss the excitement that lit up Sherlock's face. Okay, so he had a small, tiny fascination with bees. It wasn't even a fascination, really, more like a vague interest. And who could blame him? Bees were very majestic creatures.

"That would be an acceptable way to pass the time, I suppose. This entire affair seems rather dull and grating. You know how I hate such high society drivel."

Perhaps the speech would have sounded more convincing if his gaze weren't still riveted on the Queen and her guard. Even Lestrade was sporting a smirk. John just shook his head and led the way across the room.

While her guards remained unclothed, the Queen wore an elaborate robe of blue and yellow silk. The structure of the robe seemed to be oriental in nature and it had wide pant legs for each of the six limbs she used for walking. The sleeves for her arms hung down a good foot. To add to the oriental air, her long black hair was swept up into a bun and held in place by hair sticks. At this closer vantage point, Sherlock was able to identify several identifiers in their bone structure which pointed to a connection with the Asian part of the world. The slant of their eyes and high cheekbones indicated that they were affiliated most closely with the Koreans. Fascinating…

Upon reaching the delegation, John bowed low at the waist, one palm pressed flat above his heart. Sherlock and Lestrade followed suit. They maintained the position for a moment before the Queen made a soft buzzing note and they rose. John smiled genteelly.

"Your Highness, you are looking absolutely radiant tonight. That blue looks stunning on you."

The Queen held out one hand for John to kiss, which he did, and fluttered her lashes at him. Sherlock spared a moment to wonder at his flat mate's ability to attract females before becoming distracted by the woman's eyes. What had appeared initially to be jet black orbs were now revealed as having hints of gold within them. The tiny gold lines crossed the black expanse like a spider web to form a honeycomb pattern. Rather fitting.

"I see you have not lost your charm in these many centuries, Blood Healer. You look well."

"You are gracious to say so, Queen Atta. May I present my companions? This is Sherlock Holmes, a man of great intellect with whom I would trust my life, and this is Gregory Lestrade, a cherished friend from New Scotland Yard."

She did not extend the kissing hand to them, but instead ran an analytical eye across their forms. She lingered a touch longer on Sherlock.

"Intellect is valued quite highly within Abiel society, if used for the good of the Colony. To what end do you use yours?"

Sherlock knew impending judgment when he heard it. After all, this wouldn't be the first time. He felt his back stiffen as he drew himself up to his full height. So she wanted to test his worth? Let her try.

"I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I see things and make connections that no one else can. Mainly, I consult with the police, as they are constantly out of their depth."

The ridges of her brow, because there was no hair to give her an actual eyebrow, rose in surprise.

"The _human_ police?"

"The same."

"Well, that is certainly noble of you, though ultimately pointless. Tell me, how do you keep your particular nature hidden?"

She was clearly referring to his supernatural side, being unaware he did not have one. Sherlock had to give her the credit for at least being subtle about trying to figure out what he was. He and Lestrade had been warned during the ride that most individuals would assume they were sorcerers or wizards, therefore still human. He appreciated that this Queen was not so easily taken in.

"I find I have no need to."

It took only a moment for her to grasp the full implications of his words.

"Ah, I see. Though, given the company," her gaze flickered to John, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've always had a love for the humans, haven't you, Blood Healer? That is, after all, how you and the Stone Bearer met, was it not?"

"Yes…Nic and I met when he was trying to first create the stone. He had stumbled into a rather nasty situation while looking for magical components and I happened to be nearby."

She smiled and patted John's cheek with one hand affectionately. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that their relationship was some strange mix of flirtation and maternity. He made a mental note to study it further at the next given opportunity.

"You saved his life, John." This was the first time she'd actually used his name and she said it full of affection. "Good thing, too, since the two of you made such an adorable couple. As I keep telling you, though, looks aren't everything."

"Yes, you will be happy to know that Nic and I are no longer…attached to one another as we were before."

The blonde took a pull from his drink to cover the awkwardness of presenting the statement but it didn't faze the Queen in the slightest.

"Oh, my dear…I am sorry for your pain. I know you felt very strongly for him."

Her guards shifted uneasily at the term of endearment, which told Sherlock she didn't use them often. Likely, such terms were even frowned upon. Their discomfort grew when she made a buzzing noise that sounded almost affectionate. John smiled at her, a bit sadly but with the stone face that came hand in hand with being British. They'd practically invented suppressing emotions.

"It is alright. In the end, you were right. Nic wanted to show off and throw elaborate parties." A gesture at the ball room illustrated his point. "I just wanted to be a normal chap and live simply."

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Both the blonde and the Queen seemed to startle at the reminder that they were in company. "You have never been and never will be normal. Simple, perhaps, but never normal. Normal is dull."

John rolled his eyes at his flat mate, but the brunette didn't miss the Queen's approving smile.

"So is this your new 'attachment'? He's certainly cute, for a human."

John looked like he wanted to kill himself and Lestrade was grinning widely. Sherlock would admit, only to himself, that he was a bit pleased with the insinuation. John deserved better than Flamel and, really, there was no one better than himself. Not that he was interested in anything like that. All those messy little things that went along with transport were still beneath him.

"We're _not_ a couple."

John said it with the exasperation of a man who'd said the same thing many times and the Queen's eyes sparkled.

"A shame. At least this one is intelligent." Sherlock was beginning to think his fondness for bees might be growing. "Oh, look, it's the Earth Spirit. If you'll excuse me, I have some things I need to discuss with her."

They bid their goodbyes, bowing once more, before the Queen and her guard headed off to speak with a woman whose hair looked like moss and who wore a flowing gown of tree branches. Tiny flowers lined the hem. The trio watched her go.

"She seemed very pleasant."

"You only like her because she called you cute. What is it that you always say about flattery, Sherlock?"

"That it gets you everywhere. It does not, however, hold any bearing on our current situation. I simply appreciate her mental ability, that's all."

Lestrade all but scoffed.

"Whatever you say, Sherlock. I swear, you Holmes brothers are ridiculous."

"Pardon me, did you just say Holmes?"

The group turned to see a man with stone-like skin stepping out of the crowd. His suit was charcoal grey and dusted with powder. As the man moved his head there was the sound of stone grating against stone and another shower of powder fell to dust his suit. Powerful wings were pulled tight to his back and a thick tail just lightly brushed the ground. He had no hair, but his ears were long and pointed. It was John who responded, silently elected as the most qualified.

"Yes…Why do you ask?"

The man instantly turned sheepish under John's suspicious look.

"Ah, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm so sorry, sir." He bowed hurriedly and then held out one clawed hand for John to shake, once again accompanied by the sound of grating stone. "My name is Horashio Black. It's an honor to meet you."

John shook his hand bit didn't respond any further. His expression didn't become any friendlier, either. The man shifted uncomfortably.

"Right…um, sorry about that. It's just that I work for the Human Interaction Bureau and there is a human we've been thinking about bringing into the fold. He's currently undergoing our analysis process and, if he gets approved, we'll reveal this side of the world to him. His last name is Holmes, so that's why I was so taken by surprise."

"Wait, you mean Mycroft?"

The man's face lit up.

"You know him, Doctor?"

Sherlock snorted. No way was he letting his brother into his sandbox.

"Oh, you don't want to let Mycroft in. He'll stick his nose into everything and meddle. Nothing will be safe."

Horashio looked alarmed and pulled a leather-bound book from his breast pocket along with a pen. Flipping it open, he poised to write.

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock could feel the predatory grin stretch across his lips and he'd just opened his mouth to launch into a career-ruining tirade when John stepped in.

"Don't listen to him. He's completely biased. May I introduce Sherlock Holmes, little brother of Mycroft Holmes. This is Gregory Lestrade, who occasionally works with the man." Greg's immediate, "Under duress," went ignored. "I have had a number of interactions with the man myself. He is very competent."

"His brother, you say? That'll make two family members with high enough clearance levels…"

He marked something down in the notebook. Sherlock was much more interested in his statement, though.

"What do you mean, two?"

"You didn't know? Your father was registered with our offices."

The information blindsided the detective. His father had known about this world? True, he'd known his father had fingers in a lot of pies, but it hadn't even crossed his mind that the man would have been involved in the supernatural community. He shared a look with John.

"No, I didn't. Though Father was hardly the type for chit chat so I'm not all that surprised it didn't come up."

Horashio got a funny look on his face.

"It should have shown up when you registered, though…I don't understand…"

He looked at John as if he held all the` answers and the blonde smiled reassuringly back.

"Sherlock and Greg are both relatively new additions to this world. We haven't had time to get them registered yet."

"I see…Well, just be sure that you do. I won't say anything, Doctor, but it is regulations…"

"Of course. I have every intention of doing so, things have just been a little hectic the last couple of days."

Horashio nodded quickly and bowed once more before saying his goodbyes and fading back into the crowd. John took the time to explain that all humans who found out about the supernatural world were to be registered with the HIB for security reasons. John's status would eliminate the need for them to go through the long, arduous application process, but they would still need to be registered. At Sherlock's prompting, he also explained that Horashio was a Gargoyle, the protectors of the supernatural world.

The rest of the ball was spent talking to a myriad of people. Many of the outfits worn were ostentatious and amazing, though they did encounter one man in nothing but jeans and a white tank top. It'd taken Sherlock only moments to deduce that he was the designer for most of the clothes there. The Banshee, Lady Helen, came over to chat between songs and seemed to take quite a shining to Lestrade. By the end of the time window, Sherlock may even have enjoyed himself.

Still, there was no putting off what needed to be done. Flamel had already managed to move several of the guests towards leaving and announced his retirement for the evening promptly at the three hour mark. He swept from the ballroom without a backwards glance. One of the many servants appeared at John's elbow moments later.

"Master Flamel has requested that you meet him in the main study with your companions. He will be ready for you there."

John nodded in thanks before turning to lead the trio towards another of the doors which lined the wall.

"I remember when Nic first built this place. He wanted everything to be connected to this room, so each door is set up with a travel spell to take you to another part of the house. It's a bit silly, but useful for getting around quickly."

The door didn't take them directly to the study, but to a hallway instead. The walls held fine art portraits and fantastical scenes. There was a series of three wall-height portraits depicting a stately man with blue hair in a city, on a storming sea, and finally what looked like the African Sahara. As they walked past, the center portrait, the one on the sea, swiveled to look at them. Lestrade jumped back with a shout and Sherlock may or may not have been startled. John glanced at the picture and said something that sounded like, "Da gachi doja," and the portrait returned to its original position.

"Sorry. I'd forgotten about that. Flamel cast spells on a number of the portraits and statues in the house to act as a security system. When a person passes by the piece, it activates a silent alarm to alert Flamel. Without the proper pass code, it will trigger a series of other, less savory spells designed for intruders."

"So you forgot about the security portraits but remembered the pass code?"

Lestrade's incredulity was clear in his voce. John looked sheepish.

"I forgot the pass code once, many years ago…I never will again. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

The blonde turned once more to head down the hall, leaving the others to follow behind. The tension in his shoulders left no doubt about the unpleasantness of that particular memory. Sherlock felt the knot of his general hatred for Flamel tighten a bit.

It took them less than a minute to reach a set of wooden doors that led into Flamel's study. The room was large and circular, reaching two stories in height. Books lined every inch of the walls and three huge windows looked out over the gardens. Far in the distance, Sherlock could just barely make out the fountain they'd been standing around earlier. Tables and couches were scattered about the room, mostly covered in papers and open books. Jars littered some of the shelves, holding small creatures or bits of larger ones suspended in liquid or pinned to a board like a butterfly display. Overhead, hanging from the ceiling like a plane in a museum, was the skeleton of a huge dragon. Flamel and Benedicta were leaning over a large, mahogany desk set just before the windows. They looked up at the trio's approach.

"Nice of you to join us."

Clearly, Flamel was not over having to cut his party short. Sherlock just glared at him as the doors opened once more to admit Carl and Gabriel. The servant who had been leading them bowed and backed out of the room.

The group gathered around the desk, which had a map of the world laid out across its surface. Flamel took the pendant Helsing had found in his hand along with a dark chain that had a blood red gem attached to the end.

"This is a Divining Stone, forged by the Dwarves from the blood of a dragon. It will sense the energy of the killer from his amulet and lead us to him."

He held his fist out over the map and began chanting in a deep voice, eyes glazed over and swaying slightly. The stone did not sway with him, instead traveling a lazy circle around the map. As the rotation was completed, the map's image sprung to life, zooming in closer to the European continent. Another rotation brought them to the UK and yet another revealed the killer to be in England. The image shifted to the city of London before settling on the map of a ten block radius not far from the docks. Flamel jerked almost violently as he came out of the spell and stumbled back, John's grasp the only thing keeping him from falling.

Sherlock scowled.

Gabriel leaned more closely over the map.

"So we have him narrowed down to this area, but it's still too large for us to be able to pinpoint him. We could assemble a force to search the area, but it would take time, time he could use to flee."

A growl of irritation ripped its way from his throat and Carl placed a hand on his arm, visibly calming his partner. Sherlock's eyes darted to John, still supporting Flamel, and had to forcibly push his irritation to the side. Flamel wasn't the only one with fun tricks.

"Helsing, you said you followed the killer's scent from the crime scene to the amulet, correct?"

"Yes."

"I need you to describe it to me, exactly."

The Hunter ran a hand through his stubble in thought.

"Scent for a Were is very different than for a human, because of the strength of it, but I will try my best." There was a pause as he thought. "It was tangy and sharp, like a plane's exhaust. But it was much darker, almost murky. There was definitely the scent of oxidization and something like fungus, but I couldn't quite pin it down."

Sherlock hummed in response and peered over the map. He'd spent years tracking every inch of London and knew just about every nook and cranny there was to know. With that wealth of information stored away in his Mind Palace, he began making his way through the buildings on the map. The scent of plane exhaust and oxidization pointed towards something from that industry, but none of the buildings had been used for any such purpose in the past 20 years except for a small shipping plant near the edge of the map, but he doubted the exposure was enough to provide the killer with a prominent scent. Plus, it was still in use, so it was unlikely to provide the killer with the privacy he needed.

Within the ten block square, there were seven possibilities that gave the privacy the killer would be looking for. Three had gone out of business less than a year ago, but the other four had been out of operations for at least three. Two had been used to manufacture toys and could be immediately discarded. The one nearest the center of the map had been used as a meth lab for the better part of a year and would have left a stronger scent trail. Likewise, Helsing hadn't mentioned anything about the water, so he also disregarded the warehouse closest to the river bank.

Of the remaining three buildings, the most likely were a jewelry manufacturing plant and a plant that had maintained and replaced gas pipelines for the city. Both used Niobium in their products, an element also used in rocket and jet engines. Pairing that information up with the musty smell, Sherlock pointed to the gas pipeline plant. The must would have come from the old pipes.

"Here. The killer is here. It's dreadfully obvious."

Everyone was staring at his with the usual 'are you insane?' look, everyone except for John. John was grinning at him with pride and fondness and a touch of something Sherlock couldn't quite identify. He jerked back to the conversation at hand as Gabriel spoke.

"It's not obvious to me."

"Yeah, you get used to it. Best thing to do is just accept that he's right and try not to punch him in his smug mouth."

While Lestrade's words are harsh, they carried a fondness that washed away any sting they would have held. Sherlock nodded to him in acknowledgement before launching into an explanation.

"This warehouse is the only one with sufficient space and privacy to match our killer's needs while exposing him to the elements you smelled at the crime scene. It was practically child's play to figure it out."

Benedicta was smirking at Gabriel's blank look.

"Well, then, I say we get ready to go catch a killer then, shall we? Carl, you wouldn't happen to have some extra weapons in the car, would you? I'd hate to send the humans in unarmed."

Carl grinned in a way that said 'crazy scientist' and nodded.

"After that incident in Venice I never go anywhere without a healthy stock. I can have them outfitted in no time."

Flamel was standing on his own again, much to Sherlock's approval.

"I can be ready to move in about an hour. My spells will take me at least that long to prepare."

John nodded.

"Good. Then let's meet back in the ball room in an hour. Nic, you still have the London flat?"

"Of course."

"Then we'll use the connection to cut down on travel time. Benedicta, can you have a car ready for us?"

"Without a doubt."

"Then let's do this."

As it turned out, Flamel's London flat was attached to the ball room in the same manner as his garden and his study. Merely walking through a door had the group stepping out right into the center of London. Benedicta's car idled out front. She'd changed out of her fancy red dress and into a black pants-suit with red stitching that made her look about as deadly as gun pointed at your head.

Sherlock and Lestrade had been equipped from the arsenal Carl kept in the back of Helsing's SUV. Turns out, he was a crazy scientist. Each man held a pistol and two clips of ammunition. Similar to the bullets used against John in the war, they were silver, blessed, and tipped with Holy Water. All in all, they felt well-prepared when they pulled up outside of the warehouse.

The distant thought of wishing he'd had time to go by the lab crossed Sherlock's mind. Getting a look at the dirt samples from underneath Francisco's nails would definitely give him a better idea about what they were headed into. There wasn't time for that, though.

The entire area was silent as John broke the chain on the fence with his bare hands. It scraped against the concrete, but nothing stirred at the sound. Cautiously, the group crept onto the property. It was just after midnight and the area seemed completely deserted.

They only made it a few meters before something long and thick whipped out of the darkness to wrap around Lestrade's body and haul him into the air. With a shout of alarm, the DI kicked his legs in struggle, arms pinned to his side. John sprang forward, vampiric features gleaming in the dim light and slashed through the vine with his claws. He pushed Lestrade behind him, back towards the center of the group, just as another vine whipped out of the darkness to grab his wrist.

"Assassin Vines. I bloody hate these things…"

With a series of sickening cracks and pops, Helsing began his transformation into a wolf. Like Jerome, he halted while still bipedal and mostly humanoid. Covered in fur and with a protruding snout and fangs, though, he certainly looked menacing. He ripped through the vine attacking John only to have dozen shoot out of the darkness and grab hold.

Flamel, who's changed into black cargo pants and a tank top with more of the same fiery design as his suit, was searching frantically through his pockets.

"We won't be able to fight them all! We need to clear a path!"

The alchemist pulled out a jar that, once again, could not have possibly fit in the pocket it came from. Its contents glowed orange and spilled forth as soon as he unscrewed the lid. What had previously appeared to be a single, glowing object proved instead to be several dozen tiny, glowing dots that flew through the air to alight upon the vines.

The briefest touch set the blood thirsty plants on fire. Flamel grinned.

"Fireflies. They're a personal invention. Aren't they just lovely?"

Helsing muttered something that sounded a lot like 'show off' but kept the majority of his opinions to himself seeing as the Flamel _had_ just saved him. John stepped closer to Sherlock and Lestrade, the better to keep them safe.

"We need a better way of fighting them off. If it were as easy as setting them on fire, they wouldn't have lasted this long…"

As he spoke the fires were already being put out by the vines and more were creeping out of the darkness. Carl was rooting around in his coat and exclaimed happily upon producing a squirt bottle.

"Aha! I knew it was in here! These are the liquefied pheromones of the tiger lily plant, closely related to the Assassin Vine. With any luck, they should mask us from the plant's senses!"

Benedicta gave him a weird look.

"How do you come up with these weird inventions?"

"Safety has to come first when experimenting with variations of tentacle affection. Good thing, too, since they always seem to come in handy. Quickly now!"

Gabriel shook his head.

"It's best if you don't ask. Remember, though, the safety word for the week is 'potato.' It'll come in handy, trust me."

Ignoring his partners exasperation, Carl began spraying them all with the pheromone, creating a cloud of subtle floral scents. The vines which had been surrounding the group visibly hesitated. One crept forward slowly to brush the side of Flamel's neck. To his credit, the man only flinched a little.

"I think it's working. Let's get moving before they decide they want to kill us again!"

All in agreement, the group began to press forward once more. Assassin Vines littered the yard, but no longer paid them much attention as they got closer and closer to the warehouse. The building loomed up before them like a giant mountain. Against all logic, the building itself seemed sinister. Gabriel, still mostly transformed, lifted his muzzle to sniff the air.

"There is great evil here, more evil than could come from just one being. There must be more guards inside."

John nodded stiffly.

"None of us believed this would be easy. Now is when the real fight begins."

With a nod from the others, Helsing grabbed the door of the warehouse and yanked it open. That was when things really started to go downhill.


	8. Battle in the Warehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic battling...and stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. Totally forgot how graphic this was. I'll be adding Graphic Depictions of Violence to the tags section now...Also, there is a bit of scattered alternative languages in this chapter. All translations will be at the end of the fic.

Gabriel reared backwards, toppling over as a silver net shot out of the darkness within the warehouse to ensnare him. His anguished howl tore through the night as the silver seared into his flesh. John and Carl both jumped forward to help him, but John received only burnt hands for his troubles. The net had already seared to Helsing's flesh, the burnt bits serving only to secure it in place and allow it to burn more. Flamel pushed John out of the way, though Sherlock was pretty sure John let him.

"It must have been soaked in Holy Water! That's the only reason it would be burning so fast. You and Benedicta go ahead! You'll be of no use here!"

The two vampires nodded sharply and headed into the warehouse, wary for more traps. They needed a light source and they needed it fast. They would have to rely on their allies to get Gabriel out of the net.

It took Sherlock mere moments to identify where the ends of the net had twisted around each outer, weighed down by steel balls. Carefully avoiding the werewolf's thrashing, he went to work on the twisted knot. They would have to forcibly yank the net from Helsing's flesh, but it would be much easier if the net were not tangled. His own growls of frustration soon joined those of the werewolf.

A sharp cry from inside of the warehouse brought his head snapping up. It'd definitely been Benedicta, but that didn't make him feel any better about John's safety. Logically, he knew what needed to be done.

"Flamel! Go in and give them some back up! We'll handle this!"

Their eyes connected for only a split second before the alchemist nodded and sprinted into the warehouse. Sherlock briefly saw him pull something from his pocket and throw it into the air before light shone out into the darkness. He disregarded it in favor of his current task. If they were going to get through this, they couldn't afford being distracted.

Finally untwisting the strands of net, Sherlock held a bundle of them out to the other two, Carl and Lestrade. They grabbed them without hesitation.

"Now, pull!"

It was not the most pleasant way they could have removed the net, but it was certainly the fastest. The sound of hair and skin relinquishing itself from the rest of the body was drowned out only by the volume of Helsing's howl. The werewolf lay bleeding and burnt of the cement, panting heavily but otherwise unmoving. Carl crouched by his side.

"God, you'd think I'd get used to this after all these years, but I never do…"

Gabriel cracked one eye open to look at him. When he spoke, his voice was strained and laden with pain.

"You're a monk, you can't use the Lord's name in vain…"

A sad smile crossed the inventor's face and Sherlock got the feeling he was listening to some sort of inside joke.

"Actually, I'm only a friar. I can say whatever I want…God dammit."

Leaving the two to their sentiment, Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the elbow and dragged him into the warehouse.

"Carl will protect him. We need to find John."

It didn't take them long. While the perimeter of the building was lined with stacks of old crates and metal pipes, the center was relatively clear. A glowing ball of light bobbed near the ceiling, illuminating the area and casting long, moving shadows across the walls. Sherlock figured it was likely the glowing orb he'd seen Flamel produce while entering the warehouse.

The alchemist himself was showing off another one of his spells in the form of a glowing, golden whip which he was using to fend off a number of spectral-looking creatures. There were five in total and they circled him, dark tendrils just barely skimming the ground. While they had no clearly defined legs, a vague shape of a torso and arms lent the living shadows a somewhat humanoid feel. What sounded like mutterings filled the air around them and gave off a sense of demented foreboding. They lashed out at the alchemist blindly as he ducked and dodged their flailing limbs, lashing out with his whip where he could. They were hemming him in, though, and Sherlock could tell it was only a matter of time before he made a mistake.

His attention was drawn away, though, by Benedicta quite literally crashing into his line of sight. She battled with three featureless figures with skin like tough, grey leather. Their skulls were elongated like those of a sci-fi alien and their eye sockets seemed to be no more than black pits. Their bodies were powerful, though, and they seemed to have little trouble keeping up with the bob-haired brunette.

For her part, Sherlock was surprised she could still move as well as she did. As she pivoted on one foot to block and punch and deliver one of her own, the consulting detective got a look at her face. More accurately, he got a look at what was left of it.

One entire side was gone, burnt off into a crispy, cracked mess that oozed blood. Her left eye might have been gone, he couldn't quite tell because the eyelid was seared shut. The burns seemed to continue down her neck and across the front of her left shoulder. Unlike John, she seemed absolutely adamant about not transforming into the angular, black eyed vampiric form, other than her hands. It leant the entire thing a much more realistic feel, since there were no monstrous features to make it feel made up, like watching a movie.

Sherlock's first thought upon seeing the damage was that she'd been hit by a Molotov Cocktail , but that seemed unlikely in this supernatural world. His next thought was Holy Water. Judging by the damage which had been to Gabriel by the net, a splash to the face would be at least this devastating to a vampire. She probably owed it to her age and power that she'd even survived at all. He can hear Lestrade's horrified gasp from behind him and had to agree. Even in their line of work, they hardly saw injuries so gruesome. At the very least, it explained her cry from earlier.

Finally, Sherlock's eyes found John. The blonde man was also facing off against three opponents. Two looked fully humanoid, but wrapped entirely in chains. Chains wrapped around their torsos, legs and arms. There were even chains across their faces, obscuring any identifying features. They were both at least 6 feet tall and seemed to dwarf the blonde man they were fighting. The last figure was shrouded by a cloak and seemed to lurk at the edges of combat, avoiding getting too close.

For John's part, he certainly wasn't backing down. His enhanced speed allowed him to flit around the chains being shot in his direction. He kept trying to maneuver closer to the creatures, but spikes protruded from the chains wrapping their bodies which made hand-to-hand combat impossible. John was more likely to injure himself than the creatures. It seemed John knew it, too.

As Sherlock watched, he darted around behind the creatures and slashed at them with his claws, digging into the gaps between the chains. Inky black blood sprayed from where he caught one in the side of the neck, but the wound didn't seem to bother the creature in the slightest. It used the proximity to capture one of John's arms in a hanging chain. Moments later, the spikes burst from the chain, skewering John's arm and forcing him to rip out chunks of flesh to pull away.

The site of so much blood dripping down John's arm almost made the consulting detective sick. He raised the gun Carl had given him and fired off two shots, each finding their target in the body of the creature which had harmed John.

A number of things happened in the following moment.

Benedicta managed to thrust her hand through the chest of one of her opponents. With an unearthly shriek, the figure burst into vapor and disappeared, though not before leaving terrible, acid-looking burns on the arm which had been driven through its chest. The new wounds didn't stop her from facing off with her remaining opponents, though the pain was clear on her face.

At the same time, Flamel stumbled, finally making that mistake Sherlock had known was coming. He'd managed to kill one of his opponents, but that didn't keep the others from closing in. One long, shadowy limb swept past him, just barely grazing a shoulder and appearing to pass right through. Flamel's entire body lurched, though, and he fell to his knees. He grasped at the struck shoulder before rushing to his feet again and lashing out, thankfully taking down another of the creatures.

Both John and the hooded figure turned to look at Sherlock, following the path of the bullets. Brief panic shone in John's dark eyes and, for once, Sherlock rethought the wisdom of his decision. He and Lestrade were the weakest members of this team, utterly incapable of holding their own in a fight in which these three masterful warriors were fairing so poorly. Drawing attention to themselves just opened up a whole can of liabilities.

Apparently, the hooded figure agreed.

"Well, well, well, what have we here? New playmates? Etonnant!"

By his accent, he was clearly French, likely southern France. He had the more subtle tones of one raised in the French countryside. If Sherlock had to guess, he'd probably go with the region of Bijoux.

There really wasn't much time to dwell on it, though, as the man muttered a string of words in a language Sherlock did not recognize and flung a hand out in their direction. The gesture may have been funny if it weren't for the large fireball which flew in their direction.

He could barely hear John's curse of the sound of roaring flames and had steeled himself for a fiery doom when something solid slammed into him. All of the air in his lungs whooshed out as he was hit by the sensation of moving to the side far faster than his insides could accommodate. One moment he was staring down a fireball of certain death and the next he was staring up at the ceiling, dazed. Lestrade groaned beside him, the noise bringing him back to reality.

John crouched over the two of them, looking more vampiric than ever. His skin was a leathery gray, almost matching that of Benedicta's opponents and his mouth was filled with fangs, instead of just his canines. Huge, bat-like wings had sprouted from his back, ripping through his suit jacket and shirt.

He looked…terrifying.

For the first time since Sherlock had found out John was a vampire, he finally associated him with the monster from legend. There had always seemed to be some sort of division between the bloodthirsty killers and John, some line that couldn't be crossed. He knew John had killed, had seen him do it. But that moment was the first time that Sherlock Holmes ever viewed John Watson as a monster.

It was not a pleasant thought.

John was steady and kind. He wore awful sweaters and made tea even when Sherlock said he didn't want any. He had an unhealthy appreciation for those little chocolate biscuits from the corner market and ate more jam and toast than anyone Sherlock had ever met. He was trusting and fair and he would never hurt anyone if he could help it. That was Sherlock's John. Somehow, he was going to have to reconcile that with the John he was seeing before him.

Oblivious to Sherlock's inner turmoil, John growled low in his throat.

"I suggest you surrender now while I still have the self-control to let you live."

"You'll have to get in line…"

Sherlock's head snapped up to see Carl rushing forward, pulling around the hand cannon he'd had strapped to his back. Its barrel looked about the right size to fire soft balls and he'd described it earlier as an electro-magnetic propelled field. In short, it fired balls of electric energy, able to stop most anything in its tracks.

He had it aimed right for the hooded figure, who seemed to be completely ignoring him. Instead, the killer seemed much more interested in John, the vampire baring his teeth in a threatening manner. The figure didn't appear bothered, though.

"Ah…the full vampiric form…isn't it miraculeux? The legends say that you aren't one for using it often, Sire of the Saint-Sang. What makes you so reluctant? Do you believe it makes you a monstre? Well, news flash! You are one. It's about time you accepted it."

"Oh, shut up!"

Apparently Carl had quite enough of the French man's talk because he chose that moment to fire. Granted, he was probably also a little bitter about the net which had ensnared Helsing, too. With a crackle of electricity, the gun spouted a ball of lightning. It hurtled across the warehouse, but the figure was ready, not even looking away from John.

He raised one hand and, with a few muttered words, caught the ball in hand. He twirled his fingers a bit, spinning the ball of energy, still crackling away.

"Fascinating invention you have there…such a foudroyant shame its creator is not quite so brilliant."

Then the ball of energy was rocketing back across the warehouse, faster now than before. Above them, John's body tensed, but Benedicta was already hurtling across the warehouse. She moved quickly, but did not seem gifted with the same rate of speed at the doctor. Her body collided with Carl's just as the ball of energy struck, being caught by only a graze.

It appeared a graze was enough, though.

Benedicta's shriek and Carl's yell rang through the air, each jerking wildly as the electricity wracked through their bodies. They hit the floor and fell silent, neither moving. John growled above them as the creatures Benedicta had been fighting approached.

"Go and make sure they are okay. I will deal with the Bodaks. They're created by pure evil and corrupt any living thing they touch. Luckily, I'm a bit deader than you."

Ah, so that's what they were.

There was no time to ponder the new information as John hurtled across the room to tackle both of Benedicta's opponents at once. Scrambling to their feet, Sherlock and Lestrade sprinted to the heap of bodies that was their fallen comrades. Carl lay beneath the brunette, barely conscious. It seemed that the sum of her wounds was greater than her strength, though, for the vampire was out cold.

Lestrade hoisted her into his arms while Sherlock draped Carl's arm over his shoulder, supporting the majority of the other's weight.

"We need to get them out of here. They're just sitting targets if that guy starts shooting off spells again."

Lestrade nodded sharply in agreement as they began dragging their burdens towards the door. A vicious roar from behind them had Sherlock turning back in time to see John ripping the remaining Bodaks to shreds and throwing them at the hooded figure before the corpses had a chance to vanish. Black, acidic blood coated the figure, burning through his robe. The consulting detective smirked and picked up speed. He didn't want to miss the chance to watch John show this killer his place.

They left Benedicta and Carl with Helsing, the werewolf curling around his partner's body protectively. They would all have a lot to heal from when this was over. Burns from the net crisscrossed Gabriel's face and body, red and bloody in the dim light. He whimpered and licked Carl's cheek, drawing a faint smile from the smaller man.

Turning away from the lovers, the humans headed back into the warehouse. Sherlock immediately cast an analytical eye around the scene to see what they had missed.

Flamel had managed to defeat another of his spectral opponents, bringing their number down to two, while John struggled with the chain-wrapped figures. His torso was riddled with lacerations and punctures from where his opponents had managed to hit him with the spiked chains. Blood ran freely down his sides. Sherlock growled at the sight.

He yanked Lestrade to the side, ducking behind a pile of boxes for cover. The creatures were being controlled by the hooded figure, which meant that he was the biggest threat. While Flamel and John kept him distracted, it would be up to himself to go for the sneak attack. He held one finger up to his lips in a shushing motion and gestured for Lestrade to follow him.

They crept from one pile of crates to the next, ducking and weaving to avoid attention. Sherlock was honestly surprised the DI could move so quietly. He'd had to turn back a couple of times to make sure the other man was still with him, only to find Greg right on his tail.

The Frenchman was standing towards the back of the warehouse, chalk in hand and drawing something on the ground. Judging by what he'd seen in Flamel's garden, Sherlock was willing to bet it was another summoning spell. The last thing they needed was this guy calling in for back up. Still, they were going to have to get closer if Sherlock wanted to be able to make the shot. Hopefully, they'd be able to get into position before the killer could finish his spell.

It struck the younger Holmes as odd, too, that the man seemed to use both alchemy and magic. Though the brunette was still a little fuzzy on what the exact difference was, it'd been made clear to him that magic was more of an innate ability, rather than a learned skill. It was an art to alchemy's science and required less preparation of materials. While the spell he was currently working on bore the hallmarks of being alchemy, both the fireball and the redirection of the electricity earlier in the fight had seemed more like magic. Was it unheard of for an individual to use both?

Not for the first time, Sherlock cursed his lack of knowledge about the supernatural world. Just for good measure, he also cursed Flamel for being too busy fighting to be able to answer his questions. Really, some people had no manners at all.

Disregarding the alchemist as quickly as the man himself would disregard any bottle of wine that cost less than fifty quid, Sherlock crept closer to his goal. Halfway across the warehouse, the air seemed to grow colder. Whether it was from the spell or some other source, the brunette didn't know. Lestrade shivered beside him. Their breaths came in foggy puffs.

"Who turned on the bloody AC?"

"I don't know, but I think it's about time we turned it off."

A shout from across the floor drew their attention to where John was struggling with a number of chains wrapped around his limbs. His wings were pinned to his sides, along with one arm. Both of the creatures controlling the chains appeared to be having a hard time keeping him in place. With a roar, the vampire threw himself to one side, dragging the creature to his right into the air before slamming it to the ground.

Moments later, his free arm slammed its claws into the creature's back. Hot blood rushed out of the wound before John lifted the creature and slammed it back into the cement floor with a sickening crunch. It definitely wasn't getting up again.

John's voice rang out clear throughout the room.

"You know, summoning Chain Devils is impressive. I've only ever met a few mages who managed to do it without losing control and getting themselves killed."

"Oh, Guerisseur de Sang, you flatter me. Magic and alchemy can do amazing things together. Combined, each cuts the effort needed for the other in half! Oui magnifique!"

The man paused in his drawing to gloat, allowing Sherlock and Lestrade to gain precious ground. The brunette leaned around the side of a crate to spy the man just thirty yards away. He slid his gun free from his waistband and shifted to carefully take aim. He could feel Lestrade's body heat at the DI moved into position behind him. They couldn't afford to miss here and two shots had better odds than one.

Just as every time he held a gun in his hands, Sherlock heard his father's voice in the back of his head, going over his training. "Remember, shooting is easy as long as you keep three steps in mind. Aim, fire, follow through."

He sighted down the barrel of the gun like he'd been born with it in his hand. The heavy weight felt familiar in his hands, not so different from John's Browning L9A1. The smug Frenchman wasn't even paying attention, too focused on John to remain observant. It would be his downfall, this lack of observation.

His index finger lightly caressed the trigger, feeling its tension. It was ready to release its deadly force at a moment's notice. It just had to be the right moment.

Across the room, Flamel was down to just one of his opponents. With a swift jump to the side and a flick of the wrist, he finally dealt it a killing blow and the beast evaporated into the air. He landed heavy, almost losing his footing. The whip of light he's been clutching flickered and went out.

"It just had to be Allips, didn't it? Do you have any idea how much I hate Allips? Incorporeal anything is irritating, but those are the worst!"

Count on Flamel to complain about his personal problems to a French killer out for their blood. Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if the man could get any more ridiculous. What had John seen in him?

At least it could be said that the man made a pretty good distraction. The killer's attention was finally pulled from John to focus on the blonde with longer hair. Flamel grinned widely, as though he weren't about to fall over from exhaustion.

"I have to admit, though, I expected better from someone who wanted to recreate my genius."

"Oh, really? And what, exactly, would have made this mieux?"

"Well, for starters, you could have won."

Flamel had a holly wreathe in one hand and what looked like a squirming turnip wearing a gag in the other before any of them had time to blink. His incantation was in a language Sherlock didn't know, but not the same one as back in the garden. The killer stumbled briefly before pulling a bright blue vile from the folds of his cloak and hurling it at the blonde man. With a cry of, "Velicina!" the bottle shattered and engulfed Flamel's body in ice. The blonde was frozen as if in glass.

"The thing is, Alchimiste…I have."

Not by Sherlock's count.

A loud crack rang through the air as his gun went off, followed almost immediately by the sound of Lestrade's. The hooded figure crumbled to the ground.

Cautiously, the two humans crept out of hiding, guns staying trained on the motionless figure and ignoring the stares from John and Flamel. The Chain Devil which remained alive pivoted to shoot one of his many chains at Sherlock, apparently taking offence to the man killing his Master, but John interceded. The chain instead wrapped around his powerful forearm.

Sherlock switched his aim to the Devil. It was time to end this.

"Vous m'etonnez. It is not often someone is able to do that. Shall I show you what the punishment is?"

Sherlock whirled around in time to see Lestrade fly past him. He DI sprawled to the floor, unmoving. Behind where he'd stood was the killer, hooded robe now gone. He was an older gentleman, perhaps late fifties or early sixties. His salt and pepper hair was cut short and his lean face could have been pleasant if not for the cold, dangerous gleam to his eyes. It gave his entire form a much sharper look. This man was certainly their killer. Blood ran down his shirt from the two bullet wounds and the man picked at it with disgust.

"Tsk! Blood is so malprope. Though, I suppose, this means I don't have to be careful about spilling yours."

John roared at the words and leapt forward.

"You will stay away from him!"

With a gesture of his hand and another muttered spell, the man flicked his eyes towards John. The vampire slowed, looking confused. He raised one hand to his head, shaking it slightly as if to clear it. The killer growled low and repeated the spell, more strongly this time. John's form wavered before crumpling. With a feral grin, the Frenchman turned back to Sherlock.

"Entre vous et moi, I hate that spell. It won't last long…but it will last long enough."

The man's features contorted, black bleeding into the eyes and sharpened canines descending to poke out above his upper lip. He licked his lips as he took another step forward, tongue running over the fangs with reverence.

"Now then, etes-vous pret pour un repas?"

Their killer was no sorcerer…He was a vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> 1 Wonderful -"Well, well, well, what have we here? New playmates? Etonnant!"
> 
> 2 Miraculous/3 Monster-"Ah…the full vampiric form…isn't it miraculeux? The legends say that you aren't one for using it often, Sire of the Saint-Sang. What makes you so reluctant? Do you believe it makes you a monstre? Well, news flash! You are one. It's about time you accepted it."
> 
> 4 Terrible-"Fascinating invention you have there…such a foudroyant shame its creator is not quite so brilliant."
> 
> 5 Blood Healer/6 Magnificent-"Oh, Guerisseur de Sang, you flatter me. Magic and alchemy can do amazing things together. Combined, each cuts the effort needed for the other in half! Oui magnifique!"
> 
> 7 Better-"Oh, really? And what, exactly, would have made this mieux?"
> 
> 8 Alchemist-"The thing is, Alchimiste…I have."
> 
> 9 You surprised me-"Vous m'etonnez. It is not often someone is able to do that. Shall I show you what the punishment is?"
> 
> 10 Messy-"Tsk! Blood is so malprope. Though, I suppose, this means I don't have to be careful about spilling yours."
> 
> 11 Between you and me-"Entre vous et moi, I hate that spell. It won't last long…but it will last long enough."
> 
> 12 Are you ready for a meal?- "Now then, etes-vous pret pour un repas?"


	9. Knowledge is Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of what happened in the warehouse...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah...I was gonna let you guys stew on that last chapter for a couple of days, but it turns out I like you guys too much. Here's the next chapter.

Sherlock didn't look up from the tight ball he was curled into when Benedicta opened the door to the guestroom Flamel had given him. Upon returning to the mansion, the Alchemist had given them each rooms with no prompting. Most of the things in Sherlock's room, though, had been destroyed in a fit of rage within the first hour. The two since then had been spent in his ball. Without a word, Benedicta picked her way through the mess to perch on the edge of the bed nearest Sherlock's corner.

Her face and neck were still horribly burned, the charred flesh beginning to scab over. Her arms were covered by long sleeves, but Sherlock was sure they didn't look much better. The stiff manner in which she moved bespoke just how much agony she was still in, despite Flamel's potions. After several moments, Benedicta spoke in a soft tone, meant to be calming.

"We'll get him back, you know."

Sherlock had managed to survive the attack in the warehouse by emptying his entire clip into the killer's stomach when the man tried to attack. Severely wounded, the vampire had thrown Sherlock into a pile of crates and dragged himself over to John's crumpled form. Apparently, drinking the blood from another vampire had amazing healing properties.

Moments later, the vampire had commanded his Chain Devil to drag John into the circle and the three had disappeared. The pain Sherlock felt at watching John's limp, bleeding body vanish was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he realized it had all been a trap. The killer had been after John and drawn them in, like lambs to the slaughter, and Sherlock hadn't seen it coming.

As usual, his pain gave way to an anger that lashed out at all those around him.

"You're face looks great, by the way. I think you should really consider keeping it this way." He matched her glare with a faux look of surprise, clearly exaggerated. "Oh, were we not saying things that were obvious lies?"

He hated himself, hated his stupidity. How had he been so blind? And now John was gone. John was gone and it was entirely his fault. His blogger was paying the price for Sherlock's mistakes. A muscle in his chest constricted painfully.

"We were unprepared and he got the better of us, but it won't happen again. We will find him and we will get John back."

Sherlock did not share her conviction.

"We were stupid and sloppy, is what we were." He pulled himself to his feet, anger getting the better of him. "He baited us like rats and we fell for it. I thought it odd that Helsing happened to find that amulet, when everything else about the crime scenes was so immaculately done. There wasn't a thing out of place, except this mysterious necklace that just happened to give us the exact lead we needed to find his location. We sprung on that warehouse the moment we knew about it, not even bothering to double check our data."

"Time was of the essence. We had no way of knowing when the killer would move from that location."

"Thirty minutes to go by the lab and get the results from the particles under Francisco's nails would have thrown up red flags! We didn't even consider that it might be a trap! Were I viewing my own actions, I would have suspected someone as incompetent as Anderson was behind them!"

His words were biting, full of venom. While he was speaking to Benedicta, though, they were really directed at himself.

"Well, it's a bit late for that now!"

It seemed he had finally managed to rile her. She rose to her feet and crossed the room again, pulling open the door. She paused and looked back as she stepped through.

"Look, if you want to lock yourself up in here and wallow in self-pity then that's fine by me, but I'll be out there looking for John. Every moment you spend moping is time you could spend getting closer to that bastard who took him and I'm not willing to waste mine like that. Of course, our search would probably go a lot smoother with your help. You found that warehouse in seconds, with barely anything to go on. Now show me what you can really do."

The brunette man barely registered as she turned back around and walked away. She was right, on every count. The killer had a schedule, even though kidnapping wasn't usually his MO. John would likely be safe for another, he did the math, five days. That would give him plenty of time to find that French bastard and make him pay. After all, no one took what belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't bother shutting the door on his way out of the guestroom. He needed to get to Flamel's study.

JWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSH

It wasn't until ten hours later that anyone found him. Flamel threw open the doors to his study, Benedicta and Lestrade in tow. The entire room was a mess, with more than half of the books taken off the shelves and all of the alchemist's personal notes strewn across the room. He was stunned for all of a second before regaining his voice.

"Oi! What the Hell is this?"

Sherlock looked up from the papers he was examining at the desk. Benedicta was wearing quite the satisfied smirk, which made him decide he would be ignoring her for the time being. Instead, he addressed Flamel's question.

"Research. There were too many elements of the supernatural world that I didn't understand. I needed to get a handle on them if we were going to have even a ghost of a chance of finding John. Your study was the best source available. I've been here all night."

The look on Flamel's face said he wasn't sure whether to be insulted due to the invasion of his things, or complimented on his collection. Luckily, Lestrade was there to move things along as usual.

"What'd you find, then?"

"A lot of irrelevant information," he held up a finger pointedly, "but I also found some useful things, too."

He motioned for them to join him.

"We know four things about our killer. He's French, he's highly intelligent, he uses magic, and he's a vampire."

"Wait, he's a vampire?"

Lestrade had still been out cold when Sherlock had explained the kidnapping to Flamel and the others. Carl, too, had still been unconscious.

"Indeed. I suggest we contact the vampire Mordecai, he will be the most likely candidate with the information to enable us to find the killer."

"Are you kidding me? No way, Mr. Skipping-the-Details! My house, my rules. Let's take this back a couple steps and you explain whatever it is you've got going on."

Flamel really was irritating.

"It had been established that the killer uses magic and is also a vampire, yes?" Nods all around. "There are five of the original vampire lines that still exist today, all of the others have been killed off. The only line with the ability to use magic is Mordecai's."

Flamel waved a hand in front of his face as if to get rid of a bad smell.

"Mordecai is French! He's notorious for making new vampires like nobody's business and his spawns aren't much better! They're the reason we had to instill laws about that kind of thing! No way will he know the killer's identity."

"I wouldn't expect him to. According to this book," he lifted one of Flamel's tomes, "the spells we saw him use in the warehouse, the fireball, the ice, and catching the ball of energy, were all rather low level spells. I doubt his magical powers are very strong."

Benedicta's brows knitted together.

"He managed to conjure and control each of those monsters, though. Allips and Bodaks are pretty easy to control individually, but it's much more difficult to control them in larger numbers. That's not even including the Chain Devils, which require serious magic. Plus, according to you, he managed to teleport himself, one of the Devils, and John out of there."

"Ah, but all of that could be done by combining lower-level magic with alchemy. Flamel, you spent some time researching this in the 1500's, yes?"

"If by 'some time' you mean over a hundred years, then yes. My foundations were sound, but there is such a divide between those who practice magic and those who practice alchemy that the idea never took hold."

"Your research points toward them being able to amplify each other exponentially, though. In essence, even a tiny bit of magic could multiply the potency of an alchemic spell by two or three times. I believe that is what out killer did."

Flamel's, "Damn Frenchie," went largely ignored, though Sherlock did take the time to note that the man speaking was French himself.

"So what does all of this have to do with Mordecai?"

"I suspect that the vampire we faced is a very late generation of Mordecai's line. According to records, Mordecai's line descends into over a hundred. Calculating the amount of power and abilities lost between each generation, it would explain his lowered magical ability. He likely isn't even immortal anymore. Slow to age, yes, and likely to live for several hundred years, but not immortal."

Flamel grew thoughtful.

"A vampire without immortality? It would explain why he wants to recreate my Sorcerer's Stone."

Sherlock nodded.

"And his desire for the Stone explains why he needed John. Only a handful of individuals know it, but without John, you would never have been able to create it in the first place." He gestured at the paper covered desk. "It's in your notes."

Flamel's face paled and Lestrade looked back and forth between the two in confusion.

"Why? What did John do?"

"No…not what John did…It's what his blood did…"

The three men turned to Benedicta, who was slowly putting the pieces together the same way that Sherlock had.

"John is called Blood Healer or The Doctor because his blood literally heals wounds. The vampire last night didn't drink from him for the sake of drinking from a vampire, because that wouldn't give him additional healing powers, he knew exactly what John's blood would do for him. All of his descendants have a healing ability, which is why they were named the Sacred Blood, but only John's heals others so thoroughly. I have seen it bring someone back to life, though they had only been dead a few seconds."

Flamel nodded.

"I bonded John's blood with the Sorcerer's Stone because of the healing factor. The Stone does not grant immortal life, it simply prevents the wear and tear caused to a body through aging. Without regular doses of the potion I make using the Stone, I would age and die just as any human."

"So he figured out how you used John's blood?"

Sherlock shook his head at Lestrade's question.

"It is more likely that he simply reached the same conclusion through science and math. While he may not have known about John's involvement in the original Stone, it would be a logical step for him to believe that John's blood could amplify its powers."

Flamel seemed to finally be getting serious.

"So why do you believe this will lead him to Mordecai?"

"He is a vampire without immortality, obsessed with regaining what he believes to be his birthright. He likely is fixated upon his heritage as well, though he will have disregarded his human heritage for his vampiric one. The fact that they are both French will only feed his preoccupation. He will have tried to contact Mordecai. There is even the possibility of him trying to get rid of him."

Benedicta shook her head.

"Impossible. To kill a vampire is to kill anything that was created by them. If he were to kill Mordecai, he would kill himself."

"Ah, but there are other ways to get rid of vampires. He could cast him into an enchanted sleep, destroy his mind, or otherwise remove him from the way. With time and ingenuity, the possibilities are endless."

"Alright, so we contact Mords and ask him if he's heard from this guy. Sounds simple enough."

Again, it was Benedicta who disagreed.

"No one has heard from Mordecai in the last twenty years and he wasn't a fan of technology then. It's unlikely he has a working telephone, much less a mobile. We'll have to travel to him."

That caught Sherlock's attention.

"No one has heard from him in twenty years?"

She narrowed her eyes in thought.

"Yes, but that's not unusual for vampires or other immortals. Why? You believe the killer has something to do with it?"

"I would be more surprised if I were to find out he didn't. Do you know the location of Mordecai's main home? It is referenced in several texts that he had a stronghold from which he conducted most of his business and where he went to get away from the world, but I could not find any definite locations."

"He kept it well-hidden, and only a few knew its location. I am not one of them. If our killer is there, though, then he'll have it heavily fortified. Mordecai has had a long-standing conflict with the vampire Nosferu, his main house is said to be able to withstand any force."

"So there's no way for us to get in?"

"I didn't say that." A smirk graced her lips. "There are supposed to be tunnels and hidden passages leading in and out of Mordecai's house. Other than Mordecai himself, there's only one person who knows those passages, Udi von Alon. Lucky for us, he's my sire. With the right argument, we may be able to get him to tell us about them."

"Excellent. Where do you find him?"

Lestrade always had been too optimistic about things. Sherlock shook his head.

"It won't be that easy."

"No. It won't be. There's only one sure place to find Udi and it's not someplace you can just waltz right into."

"Ok…so where's that?"

"The tenth circle of Hell."

Lestrade's incredulous response was cut short when Sherlock's phone rang. He checked the caller ID and rolled his eyes. Of course it was Mycroft. He turned away from the others and flicked the phone open.

"What?"

The single word held all the venom he usually reserved for his brother. It was good to know that sometimes things never changed. As always, Mycroft's voice was filled with exasperation with just a hint of irritation.

"Where are you?"

"What's this, brother? You don't have me under surveillance?"

"Only on your flat, which, by the way, you haven't been to in almost two days. I normally wouldn't bother with your chaotic schedule except that a gentleman arrived about three hours ago and let himself in. Friend of yours? Because he matches the description of a soldier reported MIA just yesterday after a firefight in Afghanistan."

"I'm sure. I'll swing by to see him in a bit. Now, I'm sure you have to go. War in Istanbul, isn't it?

"Goodbye, brother."

"Lovely chat."

Flicking the phone closed, Sherlock turned back to the others. They had continued their discussion while he was preoccupied. Lestrade appeared frustrated.

"Well, we have to get in somehow!"

"The entrance to Hell is a closely guarded secret. They don't just go around telling everyone."

Sherlock was starting to be very happy he'd done all of the research he had.

"We could go to the Hell Wyrm."

"He won't tell us where the entrance is."

"I wouldn't be so sure. John was the founder of the Enforcers, your private police force of sorts. Before them, it was the Hell Wyrm who had to settle all of the problems and disputes in your society. With the correct persuasion, it should be possible to get him to help. Not to mention that the two of them have worked together before."

Flamel and Benedicta glanced at each other.

"I suppose it's worth a shot…"

"Excellent. Flamel, if you would inform Carl and Van Helsing of these developments, I was wondering if we could borrow your car for a trip back to Baker Street, Benedicta. It seems Bill Murray has arrived. He's earlier than John said to expect him, but he could come very much in handy if we must force our way into Hell."

JWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSH

"You must be Sherlock! The name's Bill. Well, my real name can't be pronounced by human tongue, but the body's Bill's."

The man in the living room of 221B Baker Street was well-built, clearly in great shape. He had shaggy black hair that fell around tan skin like a halo of darkness. He was about the same height as Lestrade and held himself with an air of confidence. Sherlock's research on Glimmer Skins told him that the man was also deadlier than anyone he'd ever met.

Glimmer Skins were creatures from another realm that possessed the bodies of willing humans in order to fight. They could possess other creatures, too, but humans were the most common. They lived off of the thrill of combat and gave the human they possessed incredible powers as payment for the use of their body.

He moved forward to shake the raven's hand.

"This is Gregory Lestrade and this is Benedicta. I hope your wait wasn't uncomfortable."

"Oh, I've had far worse! Benedicta, huh? Pretty name for a pretty woman." Benedicta glared at the soldier, still dressed in fatigues, and he raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just trying to pay the lady a compliment."

"We appreciate you coming."

"Hey, no prob. If John calls, there's sure to be a good fight and that's what I live for. Where is he, by the way? It's not like him to send an entourage in his place."

"He was taken."

The words sounded bitter in Sherlock's mouth and he was at least pleased that the man turned instantly serious.

"How? When?"

"Last night. We attacked what we thought was the killer's base, but it was a trap. He took John and fled."

The soldier nodded before turning to Benedicta.

"He do that to your face, too?" Her affirmative was said through ground teeth. "Guess we'll have to make sure he gets taken care of. Any leads?"

"Several."

"Good. Let's get started then, shall we?"


	10. Highway to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Co. track down the Hell Wyrm and must convince him to show them they way into Hell...after that they are on their own.

It didn't take them long to locate the Hell Wyrm. Apparently, he was whiling away his guardianship in Santorini, one for the Greek isles. It was simple enough for Flamel to create a portal to get the group there. They found him dressed in a three-piece, jet black suit and sunglasses, lounging on a beach chair and sipping a colorful drink with a pink umbrella. His shiny leather shoes were crossed primly at his ankles, the man appearing not to have a care in the world. Granted, the fact that he was dressed so nicely and sitting on a sandy beach was a bit odd, but most of the families and couples in the area were ignoring him other than a few strange looks.

Of course, the group could see what he really looked like. Fire scorched across the blackened bones of a gigantic dragon, towering over the surrounding buildings. It reminded Sherlock of the Balrog from that ridiculous Lord of the Rings movie that John had convinced him to watch. Curved horns framed its face and it turned to look at them menacingly at the same time as the man in the suit reached up to tilt his sunglasses down and peak over at the group.

"You're standing in my sun."

Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a sharp retort, but Benedicta cut him off. He also noticed that she cut off Flamel, whose response would have likely involved how the alchemist didn't see any names on the burning ball of gas in space. Dull.

"Our apologies, sir, but this is a matter of great importance. We seek your assistance."

"My assistance? I'm not sure if you've heard, but I'm out of the business of solving problems. It's called retirement. Go find an Enforcer if you're so keen on getting help."

"I'm afraid they won't be able to give us what we need. Only you have the information."

The man set his sunglasses back in place and settled into his chair again. The dragon image huffed out a cloud of smoke, the resulting haze blocked out the light. Since the Glamour covered that up, though, it created a rather fascinating affect. Perhaps Sherlock would have been more interested if the Wyrm were being more helpful. Apparently he was also not stupid.

"Ah. You're trying to get into Hell, then? Listen, you aren't the first who've tried, and I'll tell you the same thing I've told all the others. You're not going to get the entrance from me. Hell is for the dead, not the living."

Sherlock had never been very good at keeping his irritation in check.

"Tell me, Hendricus Van Der Holst, do you enjoy spending your days on a beach? Do you enjoy not having to resolve every little problem in the supernatural world?" Both forms of the Wyrm glared at Sherlock, which he took as a yes. "It was John Von Hamish who established the Enforcers and gave you that freedom, wasn't it? Now you only get called in for the most extreme problems. You haven't had to step in for over a thousand years. Nice life, isn't it?"

The man sat up at the same time as the dragon lowered its massive head to stare closely at Sherlock. The sunglasses were also removed.

"What does John have to do with this?"

"He was taken Sunday night. If we do not find him within the next three days, he will die. He will be drained of his blood as he dies a slow, excruciating death. That doesn't even account for the torture and experimentation that his captor is no doubt inflicting upon him as we speak. In order to save him, we need to get to the tenth layer of Hell. I don't care if you give us the location of the entrance, teleport us there, or dance around in a god damned tutu, but we are getting into Hell."

"The tenth layer or Hell, eh? No one tries to go there."

"We are."

Sherlock held the man's gaze with defiance. He would not let this fluffed up bastard stop him from saving John, his John. Nothing was going to stand in his way of that, not even a fiery dragon from Hell. His irritation flared as the man smirked at him.

"Bit of a spitfire, aren't you? I bet John loves it…and he always did have a thing for brunettes." Ok, so maybe Sherlock was a touch less irritated now. The blonde alchemist, on the other hand, seemed to be glaring even harder than before. "You say that soldier-boy is in trouble?"

Benedicta decided it was a good time for her to step in again.

"Any assistance you would be willing to give us would be most appreciated."

The man rubbed his chin for a moment, clearly deliberating. Standing, he tucked his sunglasses into his breast pocket. At his full height, he was well over six feet tall, as monstrous as a man as he was as a dragon.

"There is an entrance underneath this city that will lead you to the first level of Hell, Limbo. From there, you will have to get past Cerberus, who guards the entrance to the other levels, and Charon, the ferryman, on your own. If you can get past Cerberus, Charon will expect a bribe. He is the only one who can transport you between the levels."

"And if we try and breach their depths without him?"

"Your souls will be caught by the magiks surrounding the realm and you will suffer in the Pits right alongside the rest of the scum. Shall we be going?"

Less than an hour later, the group found themselves staring out into a grassy pasture, surrounded by hills. A great castle stood at the center of the massive clearing. It appeared to be about midday, as a sun shone high in the sky. People milled across the grass, though they seemed to give the castle a rather wide berth. None of the residents were talking to each other, or even seemed to notice the presence of other beings.

Moments before, the group had been standing in the tunnels beneath Santorini. A staircase hidden behind an 'Employees Only' sign of the towel house had led them deep underground. Well below sea level, the stone corridors were damp and more than a little dark. Sherlock was positive that more than a little magic had gone into making sure they didn't collapse.

Hendricus leaned through the doorway after them. Despite the darkness of the tunnels, his sunglasses had remained firmly in place the entire time.

"You will find Cerberus at the back entrance to the castle. If you can get past him, Charon will find you. Good luck, for what it's worth."

Without waiting for a response, the Hell Wyrm slammed the door shut, the door disappearing with him. Where it had stood moments before, they could see only more hills. Lestrade grumbled.

"Not really a people person, is he?"

"At least he helped us."

Somehow, Flamel still made it seem like he heartily disapproved. Lestrade and Sherlock ignored him in favor of looking around the clearing. While Sherlock kept his musings to himself, Lestrade took the opportunity to start asking questions. The consultant was once again grateful for the time he'd taken to do research in Flamel's study.

"So this is Hell, huh? It…isn't what I would have expected."

"Those who are sent here are only souls who made deals with demons or devils during life. They sign a contract forfeiting their soul, which is then sent here. It consists of ten layers, the first being Purgatory. That's where we are now. It is something of a staging area for sorting through the souls. As the levels descend, the conditions get worse and worse. The lower levels are also home to a variety of demons and devils, the holders of the contracts. It is said that Satan himself resides in the ninth layer and that not even he ventures into the tenth."

Lestrade did not seem amused by Benedicta's explanation.

"Great. Our ultimate goal is to get somewhere not even Satan will go. Should be a walk in the park, guys."

"I think right now we should focus on how we're going to get past this guard dog." The excitement was clear in Bill's voice. "I've heard stories about the abilities of Cerberus. It certainly won't be easy to defeat him."

"It is my plan that we won't have to."

Sherlock was already striding across the field, leaving it up to the others as to whether or not they followed. Flamel was the first to catch up with him, sending him what the alchemist obviously thought were subtle glares.

"Oh, really? And what, exactly, is your plan, oh great and powerful one?"

"We will make our way past Cerberus using the same method by which we bypassed Hendricus."

"Reason with him and say John's in danger? Somehow, I don't think that's going to get through to the mutt."

"Your condescension is noted. No, I plan to use this." Sherlock pulled one of John's sweaters out of the duffle he'd packed at the flat and still had with him. They'd all brought small bags, as there was no way of knowing how long this trip into Hell would take. All except Flamel, of course, with his bottomless pockets that Sherlock was not at all jealous of. Bill carried Benedicta's, a show of chivalry she seemed more than happy to take advantage of. "John was once a guardian of the gates of Hell and there's not an animal alive that doesn't fall instantly in love with that man. His scent on this sweater will hopefully be enough to draw him away from the entrance long enough for us to get through."

"And you honestly expect that to work?"

"I don't see you coming up with any useful plans, Nic." Benedicta took the sweater from Sherlock. "I'll draw Cerberus off. After all, I may not be as fast as John, but I'm still faster than any of you lot."

"So we're not getting into a fight with him?" Bill pouted. "Can we at least get into one fight on this trip? I'm gonna end up fat. And lazy."

Benedicta smirked.

"Oh, it's not so bad. Besides, there's still a chance that Sherlock's plan won't work. Don't give up hope yet."

"Aw, comforting me already? I knew I liked you."

The smirk turned into a glare, but Sherlock was much more preoccupied with crossing the rest of the lawn. It took less than ten minutes for the group to reach the castle. None of the people wandering about so much as glanced in their direction. It was rather unsettling.

The walls of the building were three stories tall, at least, and made of stone mason work. The group slowed to a stop as they approached the back corner. Hendricus had been kind enough to inform them that the front entrance of the estate was a trap, and that any attempt to enter there would lead to the forfeit of their souls. The great huffs of a large animal could be heard from just out of sight.

It was Sherlock who took the risk of peaking around the corner to give them an idea of what they were up against, mostly because he did it before any of the others had a chance to. He'd run across material on Cerberus while researching in Flamel's study. Every reference spoke of a terrifying beast with three heads, though the details often varied.

The creature he saw did not disappoint any of these descriptions. Standing nearly two stories in size, the hound resembled a dark, three-headed German Shepard with a brown brindle coat. Black fur swept down his spine with stripes running across his sides. The middle head was snuffling at something in the grass while the other two kept look out. The nondescript door it guarded stood about 50 yards down the wall, but from the looks of things Cerberus would be able to cross that distance in a single bound. The brunette ducked back around the corner.

"Well?"

Flamel was giving him a challenging glare, but Sherlock ignored him in favor for Benedicta.

"You better be as fast as you think you are. He's standing about 50 yards down the wall, but it won't take him more than a second or two to make it to this corner. We have the advantage of being downwind, but that also means you'll have to make it around him in order to utilize the sweater."

Benedicta didn't seem concerned, hanging the oatmeal sweater off of a single finger.

"In these heels? It'll be like a walk in the park."

Bill took one glance at her five inch stilettoes and looked like he was going to have to pick his jaw up off the ground.

"And just when I thought you were already perfect…"

She glared again.

"In your dreams."

Her comment was met by a grin that was becoming almost customary.

"Definitely."

"Alright, if you two are done making eyes at each other, let's get with the distraction-making."

"As much as it pains me to agree with anything Flamel says at this point, he is right. We have a narrow window of opportunity before either Cerberus figures out we're here or conditions change in another way that will, in all likelihood, be against our favor."

Benedicta gave a sharp nod and darted out past the corner. She'd been right. Those heels didn't hold her back after all…

Cerberus spotted her in less than a second and soon all three heads were swiveled in her direction. Hackles rose, exposing glistening white canines and three mouthfuls of teeth designed to rip a body to shreds. The air filled with a threatening growl, but he made no move to pounce or otherwise attack her. The vampire started to skirt the edge of a half circle around the beast. Smart, if she could get to the other side without crossing into the guard dog's territory, she could avoid most of the work. Sherlock was glad to reaffirm that at least someone else on their team had brains to go along with the brawn.

Unfortunately, it seemed the Cerberus had other ideas than to just let her circle. As she made it about halfway around, his powerful back legs kicked out, sending him straight into Benedicta's path and causing her to have to scramble to stop and not slide into him. All three heads lowered to her level, growling loudly and glaring. Despite the ferocity of the creature's appearance, Sherlock could see the gleam of intelligence in its eyes.

The game had changed.

While Sherlock's mind scrambled for a method of recovery that involved them all getting out of the situation alive, Benedicta was following their first strategy. She slowly, so as not to appear threatening, held the sweater out, first to the side, and then directly to the beast. The growls died down a bit as the dog's great breathes pulled in just a faint hint of John's scent from the cloth. The center head leaned forward just a bit while the other's held back, tense as coiled snakes.

The nose of the beast pressed into the sweater and it took several deep breaths, clearly a bit confused. Benedicta's gaze darted in the group's direction, her glare clearly telling them to get a move on. Sherlock took hold of both Lestrade and Flamel and shoved them towards the door in the wall.

"Go. Both of you. Now. Bill, you're with me. She's about to need a knight in shining armor."

Lestrade nodded sharply and started dragging the alchemist towards the door, ignoring the other's protest. He'd been around the consulting detective long enough to know that if he said to move, you did it. Bill cracked his knuckles and grinned.

"Finally."

That was the exact moment that the tables turned for Benedicta. With a sudden growl and a lightning fast flash of teeth, Cerberus ripped the sweater from her grip. Tattered cloth hung from the teeth of the middle head, making the beast all the more threatening. Sherlock had not counted on the dog being intelligent, and he apparently didn't like it when others tried to fool him. The head to the left struck next, Benedicta just barely having time to dodge out of the way.

She vaulted over the beast's jaw, landing in a crouch on its nose. She pulled one fist back to strike but the head reared up, sending her flying to the side, not that the impact with the ground would do much damage to her. Bill, who was faster than Sherlock, reached them first, heading directly to Benedicta's side. He sent a well-place kick to the guard's jaw, sending him sprawling to the side. Alerted to the newcomers, one of Cerberus's heads swept around towards the castle, catching sight of Sherlock as well as the two running for the door. He scrambled to get his paws back under himself.

The beast growled threateningly and lunged forward, one giant paw catching Sherlock, who had the misfortune of being closest, in the chest and slamming him to the ground. Great white fangs glistened in the midday sun as the center head swung over to bare its teeth at him. The other heads kept a constant eye on the others, not leaving any openings for a rescue attempt. The consulting detective was beginning to lose track of how many times his life would be threatened this week and he was honestly getting a little tired of it.

Cerberus crouched lower and stuck his over-sized nose into Sherlock's chest, sniffing him curiously. After a pause, the big dog sniffed several more times. A noise rose in his throat that sounded somewhat confused to Sherlock's ears before the dog drew back a bit. A glance to the side told the brunette that Benedicta and Bill, at least, were ready to spring to his aid.

They never got a chance to, however, because the next thing any of them knew, Cerberus was licking the detective with abandon. His wet tongue raked over the man's tall form, tail wagging enthusiastically. The other heads had turned away from their watches to join in the assault. Sherlock used both arms to shove at the heads, the giant dog backing off more because he sensed Sherlock's resistance than because Sherlock had actually managed to push him away.

The beast crouched, wining pitifully and throwing the brunette watery looks. All three heads lay upon the ground, clearly trying to seem nonthreatening. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, trying vainly to wipe off some of the slobber, as the others rushed to his side. Their heads all snapped to the door of the castle when a voice called out.

"Tamed the beast, I see. I'm not surprised, you've got John's magic all over you, sweetheart! Then again, John has been known to have a thing for brunettes and just look at you, Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome. I could just eat you up~!"

The man they turned to see was well over six feet tall much like the Hell Wyrm, but that was where the similarities ended. This man was black, largely built, and wearing slacks paired with a button up and a red cardigan. His head was shaved and just a hint of gold glittered around his eyes. He smiled out at them broadly. The group tentatively moved to join him at the door.

"I'm Charon, by the way, the ferryman."

Well, that was unexpected. Still, Sherlock was nothing if not focused on his own goals.

"We need to get to the tenth layer of Hell."

"Straight to the point, huh? I like that in a man, too bad you're taken." The man pouted a bit as he looked at the rest of the group, but the look disappeared upon seeing Bill and Benedicta. "Well aren't you two just adorable! Perfect for each other! Absolutely perfect! How long?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How long have you been together?"

Benedicta's face hardened as Bill's split into a grin.

"We're not."

He leant over to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

"Aw, Honey, don't be like that. You know we don't have to keep it a secret forever."

The glare she sent him could have killed a lesser man. The arm was quickly removed.

"Listen close, because I'm not going to repeat myself. I will end you."

"Having a domestic, then? That's alright, I understand. It happens. Don't worry, you'll work it out. Do you have a shipping name yet? I'm thinking Billedicta."

"Shipping?"

"Yeah, you know, like a couple name. I remember back when John was seeing that woman, Mary Morstan Du Laine. We used to call them Morish. You know, Morstan and Hamish? Now there was a good looking couple. It's tragic what happened…"

One glance around the group told Sherlock that he wasn't the only one who didn't know what was going on. Benedicta's uncomfortable expression said that she knew, but it was a subject not open for discussion. Interesting…He'd have to explore this later. For now, they needed to get John back. He could interrogate his flat mate about past love interests later.

"So, Hendricus said you could take us through the layers."

"Of course, sweets! That is, after all, what I do. It'll require a bribe, though."

The last statement was accompanied by a wink that said the ferryman was open to…alternative forms of payment. Flamel reached into a pocket and produced a red gem about the size of a fist, lines of orange and black streaking throughout it. The lines danced and flickered like fire.

"This is a gemstone of my own invention, absolutely priceless. I crafted it using the eye of a dragon and the tears of a phoenix. There's not another one like it in the world."

Charon lifted the stone and examined it closely, turning it about in the sunlight. With a nod of approval, he slipped it into the pocket of his cardigan. Apparently his pockets were similar to Flamel's, for the stone disappeared completely. He turned to look at the others expectantly.

"Each traveler must pay the price for the ride."

There was no trace of his sugary talk anymore, the man totally down to business. Benedicta stepped forward, pulling a brightly colored blue and green feather from inside her suit jacket. It was silky and soft-looking, flowing gently in a breeze that wasn't there. Sherlock was seriously starting to get jealous of all of these hidden, magical compartments. Really, did everyone have one but him? He glared at Lestrade suspiciously, much to the other man's befuddlement.

"This is the feather of a LiLlend," a race of bird-like serpents with feathered wings that survived in both the air and the sea. "It is extremely rare. This feather is 300 years old and was gifted to me by their High Priestess and leader, Morita."

Charon took this gift and examined it, too, stroking his fingers along its length. He smiled at the texture and, with a flick of his wrist, turned the feather into a boa. He flung the new accessory around his neck, grinning broadly.

"Oh, you know exactly what a man needs!"

He winked at her before turning to Sherlock. Though they had not planned on needing individual bribes, the detective had known within seconds what would appeal to the ferryman. He pulled his phone from his pocket and, after a few clicks, held it out to the man, a photo displayed on the screen.

"I can offer you his personal number, not routed through any secondary sources. The rest would be up to you."

He could see the glint of interest in the other's eyes.

"Well, he certainly is cute…He'd be lovely to tease. I mean, just look at those cheeks! Can you imagine how lovely they'd look decorated in a blush?" He reached for the phone, eye flicking to Sherlock's. "Do you mind?"

"Go ahead."

Large fingers wrapped gingerly around the phone, bringing it closer to the other man's face so he could get a better angle on the picture."

"He's single?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And his name?"

"You don't know? You knew Bill and Benedicta's."

"My knowledge extends to those who enter Hell, not those outside of it. His name?"

Apparently, Sherlock had pegged the ferryman's taste very well.

"Mycroft. He's my brother."

That earned him a look and a raised eyebrow, not to mention the scandalized expression of Lestrade's face. Charon bit his lip.

"I really shouldn't…I can't afford to be away from Hell…"

"You could call, or text. He hates text."

"Oh, too perfect! I love text!" The struggle was clear on his face before he sighed heavily in defeat and handed the phone back. "You are a cruel, cruel man, Sherlock Holmes. I accept your payment."

With a smirk, Sherlock exchanged the contact. Mycroft would appreciate a contact with the kind of power that Charon obviously had. It was only a bonus that Charon would drive him up a wall in the process.

Bill shrugged when it was his turn.

"I suppose the best thing I can offer is a chance to get out of this place. I'll cover your duties for a day so you can go meet Sherly's brother." That got him a glare from the detective, but it went ignored. "First impressions are always best in person, after all."

Charon rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"You are a Glimmer Skin, correct?" A nod. "It is unconventional…but you should have enough power to handle things as long as nothing catastrophic happens…I'll show you the ropes on the way down."

That left Lestrade as the final individual in need of a bribe. While Sherlock had expected the man to be somewhat panicked for a bribe, he seemed cool as a cucumber.

"Really, guys? Haven't any of you been to a prison before?"

He reached into his coat pocket and, for a moment, Sherlock absurdly thought he was going to pull out a magical object. Instead, he withdrew a cigarette and held it out to the ferryman.

A huge grin broke out across Charon's face.

"I haven't had one of these in ages! Oh, this is my favorite by far! You, sweetheart, are getting the royal treatment!"

"Are you kidding me?!" Apparently Flamel did not appreciate the humor of the situation. "A bloody cigarette is all it takes?!"

Lestrade shrugged.

"Prison Rules 101. How many people do you think offer that up as price? Besides, it's not like he can just pop out and grab a pack. I wouldn't be surprised if Bill here were the first to offer to take his place."

Flamel grumbled, a storm cloud covering his face. Charon gestured for them to follow him through the door, holding the cigarette under his nose to savor the scent. As Sherlock moved towards the door, Cerberus whined, bringing the detective's attention back. Still crouched in the grass, the giant dog wagged his tail in what could only be described as a hopeful manner. Sherlock held one hand up towards him.

"Stay."

The dog's heart-broken cries could still be heard after the door was closed.

"Damn, sweetie, that was cold."

"I do not have time to cater to the whims of a tail-wagger. It will survive without me, I assure you."

The room they stood in was made of glossy marble, like the lift bay of a fancy office building. A single set of sliding doors for a lift stood to one side. A potted plant sat on either side of the door. A wall of frosted glass stood at the opposite end of the room, a door leading into the rest of the manor.

Charon crossed to the sliding doors and pushed the button on the wall, causing them to slide open soundlessly. The group piled in, revealing the entire back of the circular elevator to be made of glass. They fit comfortably, but Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that the lift could accommodate any number of people. Flamel, of course, was the first to speak up.

"I thought you used a ferry. Aren't we supposed to cross the river Styx?"

Charon shrugged and gave them a wide grin.

"Got an upgrade a few years back. Some bloke needed to get in to see his girl, you know how it goes. He offered to install the lift as his bribe I think his name was Burton Hormer…I still have no idea how he did it, but I'm not complaining!"

He pushed the button marked 10 on the panel by the door and they began their descent into the pits. Sherlock's lips twitched as cliché elevator music began to play from a speaker overhead. They all ignored Flamel's continued mutterings of complaints. Clearly, someone was having a bad day.

"What kind of a ferryman doesn't use a ferry?"

Through the back of the lift, Sherlock could see stone move past as they descended. From the rate it passed the window, it was pretty easy to tell they were moving at extremely high speeds. In the background, he was dimly aware of Charon explaining how the lift worked to Bill.

Suddenly, the stone was replaced by open air on all but the side with the doors as they hurtled through a vast cavern. Figures could be seen tossed about by vicious winds, occasionally being slammed into the walls of the cave. About halfway down, a man slammed into the glass of the lift before being torn away by another gale. It was enough to startle Charon out of his explanation. He frowned at the interruption to his conversation.

"Ah, Lust. Welcome to the second level of Hell, honey buns! This is for those who sign contracts with creatures such as a Succubus, for the sake of carnal pleasure. The winds represent how they are helpless to fight against their physical urges in life."

"Very Dante's Inferno."

Sherlock couldn't tell by her tone if Benedicta meant that as a compliment or not.

"Yes, well, he did take some artistic liberties."

Another rush of stone told them they had passed down another floor. The next level was a wasteland, entirely grey and lifeless. Men and women in scraps of clothe struggled to bear great palanquins upon which obese men sat, feasting on grapes and meat.

"The third level of Hell is for those who were gluttonous. Here, they must suffer under that which they wished to be."

The theme continued through the rest of the levels. The fourth layer was Greed and displayed lines of prisoners trenching through knee-deep mud with dragging chains which were imbedded in their flesh. Heavy rains pelted them from above and Charon assured his passengers that it was icy cold. Over-looking the prisoners were several of the chain-wrapped figures that John had fought in the warehouse.

"Chain Devils, they're called. They can manipulate chain and have been around them for so long that the links have become a part of their bodies. Many sorcerers try and summon them in an attempt to use them in battle, but that isn't something that generally ends well."

Wrath, the fifth layer, gave a more stereotypical view of Hell. It was a fiery river filled with figures battling against each other. Some had weapons while others fought with their fists.

"This is the original River Styx. You would not believe how much trouble it was to paddle across that thing. Not a single one of those idiots knows how to pay attention and get out of the way."

Clearly, that hit a sore spot with their guide. The sixth layer was even more traditional. Heresy was all fire and brimstone, with the occasional lava pit. Red-skinned devils darted about, cackling merrily as they tortured their victims in an impressive variety of ways. Sherlock would have to keep notes.

The next layer was for fraud and had three circles. The outermost was a river of blood, through which a number of figures struggled. Charon informed the group that these were the newest arrivals. They were told that if they made it to the center, they would find an oasis where they could spend the rest of eternity. The second obstacle these victims would encounter was a long stretch of brambles which cut and bit the prisoners at every chance, sometimes even taking off limbs. In the center of the rings stood a dry, arid desert. Needless to say, there was no oasis.

Violence was a cavern much like the second layer of Hell. The difference was that there were lines of victims staggering along the bottom of the sheer cliffs, guards whipping them with spiked flails.

The lift slowed as they approached the ninth layer of Hell and frost began to form on the glass. The lift dinged and the doors slid open as they came to a stop. Sherlock shot Charon a confused look, but he only smiled.

"It looks like the big man wants to meet you. Let's move, everyone!"

They stepped out of the lift into what appeared to be a huge, icy cave. A lake sat in the middle, frost moving upwards to form a throne. A giant sat upon it, the ice coating his body to hold him in place. Yellow eyes focused upon the group.

"And who is this who dares enter my realm, Charon?"

"Oh, you'll adore them, sir! They've come to visit Udi, down in the tenth layer. They know John."

Jet black eyebrows tinted by frost rose.

"The tenth layer? My, they are brave ones. It must be a dire quest if they are willing to make such sacrifices…I will let them pass. Bid my greeting to Udi, he has brought me many new…additions over the years. He is a valuable asset."

Charon bowed.

"Of course, sir."

Back on the lift, Charon breathed a sigh of relief.

"He was in a good mood today, we were lucky. I couldn't be sure he wouldn't decide to take your souls and imprison you here."

Flamel gave him a look that could only be incredulous.

"You knew that was a possibility and you didn't even tell us?!"

"It's in the rules."

Flamel's complaints were stalled by the ding of the lift and melodic female voice stating, "Tenth Floor". The frost still obscured the back window and the whole group braced themselves for what they would encounter as the doors slid open.


	11. Meetings With Udi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group has made it to the tenth layer of Hell...now it's time for the hard part.

To say that the tenth layer of Hell was not what the group expected would be an understatement. The elevator doors had opened up into what appeared to be some kind of restaurant. A seating area with a long bar filled a large area to their left, while the rest of the store held various food stations. As they moved further inside, an employee behind a station for bread and pastries greeted them.

Charon moved to just behind Sherlock's elbow and pointed him towards a station in the middle of the market. A glass case faced them filled with cakes, tarts, and other desserts. Behind that, employees bustled around an espresso machine and a register as customers came and went.

"You'll find Udi there. I'm going to get a pizza. Good luck, sweetheart."

With a final wink, Charon moved away, his large form stepping easily around the displays. There were maybe 20 patrons in the store, but only one was seated at the bar of the coffee station. It was the man from the portrait in Benedicta's office. He appeared to be in his early fifties, dressed in jeans and a red flannel button up over a white undershirt. Clearly Israeli in heritage, he was bent over his phone, watching some sort of video. An empty to-go cup with the store's logo sat beside him. Sherlock was sure that, in given closer inspection, he'd be able to identify exactly what he'd been drinking. Benedicta moved to the front of their group.

"I'll approach him first. There's no way of knowing from here what kind of mood he's in. We'll need to ease into things. If we jump right into wanting something, he will refuse, no matter what we are asking."

There were nods all around and she turned to approach her creator. The others hung back, milling about the displays in the area. The girl behind the bread counter, a petite girl with dark skin and long braids, asked if they needed any assistance, but Sherlock and the others ignored her.

"Udi? It's been a while."

The man's head jerked up from his screen, though he hadn't yet turned around on his stool to face her yet. A few quick taps to his phone and the video was gone.

"My daughter, I did not-" He cut himself off as he turned and saw her face. His grin dropped and he leaned forward to inspect the cracked, blackened skin. "Who did this to you? You killed them, yes?"

He spoke in a stilted tone that said English was not his first language. His accent was heavy, but his grip was light as he moved her chin from side to side to get a better look at things. Benedicta underwent the examination with little complaint. It was fascinating to see how her normal take-charge attitude was cowed by the mere presence of her sire.

"He was too powerful…he managed to escape despite our best efforts."

With a grunt, Udi turned back to the counter and raised one hand in the air, signaling to the employee before gesturing to Benedicta.

"You cannot go out looking like this. You need coffee. How could you allow this to happen?"

"It was one of Mordecai's spawn. He combined magic and alchemy to create some extremely powerful spells. There was nothing more we could have done."

"You have responsibilities, Benedicta, and an image to uphold. Why would you think you could be seen like this?"

"There are more important things going on than that! This vampire, he took-"

She was interrupted as an employee passed a togo cup across the counter. It had no lid and was filled up three-fourths of the way. Judging by the tint of the foam, Sherlock guessed there were three shots of espresso in it.

"Ah. Here. Drink."

Udi tried to pass his spawn the coffee, while Benedicta's frustration seemed to be coming to a head.

"I do not need coffee, I need you to listen to me!"

"Drink."

The power in that one word made even Sherlock blink. Benedicta took the cup and drank, not putting up even an ounce of further argument. It seemed Udi had used the infamous bond held between sire and spawn. If given a direct order, the spawn had no choice but to obey. Within seconds, the cup was empty.

A look of surprise flashed across Benedicta's face and Sherlock shifted to the right, around the jam display, to get a better look. The burns on her face were healing over, scaring and fading until only smooth flesh was left in its place. Benedicta pulled back one sleeve of her jacket to look at her arm where the Bodak had burned her. It, too, was healed. Her eyes flickered up to meet her sire's gaze.

"John's blood was in that…"

He shrugged and grunted, but gave no further information.

"So what of this vampire magician? You said you were with a group?"

"Yes. Most of them came with me." The others stepped forward to join her. She gestured to each of them in turn. "This is Sherlock Holmes, a dear friend of John's, and Gregory Lestrade, another of his friends."

Udi looked them up and down, clearly not impressed. Benedicta moved on.

"This is Nicholas Flamel, The Alchemist."

"I know who he is. I only regret that I could not talk John out of that ridiculous marriage. I told him, 'The man is blonde, clearly it cannot be.' But he refused to listen. Now, you have hurt him, he has run off to yet another war, and you let him get kidnapped. What kind of a husband are you?"

Flamel bristled.

"John left of his own accord. Do not presume to make it my fault."

"Perhaps there was nothing left to keep him there." Apparently done with his conversation with Flamel, Udi turned to look at their remaining party member. "And you? Who are you?"

Benedicta scowled at the soldier.

"That's Bill, no one important."

Udi's eye's flickered between them before narrowing into a glare. Had Sherlock been in Bill's shoes, he would have felt quite intimidated.

"And what, exactly, are your intentions towards my daughter?"

"Uh, um…I don't really…have any?"

Benedicta looked as though she would happily kill herself in that moment. Udi's glare sharpened.

"You are using her then? Attempting to take advantage of her naivety?"

Bill snorted.

"I hardly think she's naïve."

"Oh? And what is that supposed to mean?"

Defiance flared in Bill's eyes and Sherlock would have been able to see the confrontation coming from a mile away.

"I'd say it means that she is a strong, independent woman who can take care of herself and doesn't need a man to do it for her."

"So you do not stand with her? You leave her by herself? Is that how my daughter was injured, because you would not lower yourself to protect her?"

"First of all, mate, I'm not in a bloody relationship with her, whatever you may think. She's been pretty adamant that she's not interested, believe me. Even if I were, I wasn't there when she was hurt. She's perfectly capable of defending herself so maybe you should consider lowering yourself to letting her live her life."

Benedicta shoved her way between the two.

"Alright, alright! As much as I'd love to watch you be utterly slaughtered by my sire, we have bigger things to worry about. Udi, something happened in the fight which injured my face that is most distressing."

"Yes, John was taken. I have heard."

She blinked in surprise.

"You knew?"

It was here that Sherlock entered the conversation.

"The disappearance of a vampire of John's stature would be news that traveled fast. Even if none of us spoke of it, there are likely a number of creatures who monitor this type of thing, am I right?"

Udi hummed noncommittally.

"You have come to me for a reason. What is it that you believe I can help you with?"

It took Sherlock less than two minutes to talk Udi through all the details of the case so far. Unlike most, he didn't much care about the method they had used in reaching their conclusions, just that they did so logically. He nodded along as Sherlock spoke, all the while fiddling with his mobile.

"So you believe that he is holding John at Mordecai's manor?"

"I am certain of it."

"Would you stake your life on it?"

"I am already staking John's. My life is of little consequence to the equation."

A smile crept across the larger man's face.

"Ah, I understand…You like him."

Sherlock drew himself up.

"He is my best friend."

"John always does have trouble expressing his feelings." He gave Sherlock a measured look. "I will make you a deal, because I do nothing for free."

"Anything you want that is within my power to give will be yours."

Sherlock had no illusions about what he would do in order to get John back.

"I know the location and layout of Mordecai's hidden manor, which I will give you, along with hidden passages in and out and anything else you might need, in exchange for an oath from you. When you have managed to pull off this rescue, you must tell John exactly how you feel. I expect happy news by the end of the week."

"John knows how I feel."

There was an uneasiness in Sherlock's gut that twisted at the words, but he pushed the feeling aside. There was not time for such foolishness, especially while Udi was smirking at him so condescendingly.

"No…I don't think he does. Those are my terms, though, your oath in exchange for the information."

Sherlock's curls bobbed as he gave a sharp nod.

"Then you have it."

"Good. You should know that you have now entered into a contract, overseen and bound by the powers of the tenth circle of Hell. Any breach to this contract shall result in the immediate possession of your soul to be dragged into the Pits and tortured for all eternity."

"You have my word."

"Well then, that's all taken care of…shall we get started?"

He gestured to one of the employees and grunted a bit, though the employee seemed to follow his communication perfectly as there was soon a map and blueprints being placed in front of them. Udi snapped him fingers and the employee was soon handing over a pen as well. Standing, the vampire gathered up these new materials.

"Come."

The group followed after him as he made his way into the seating area and claimed a long, wooden high top and spread the papers across it. He turned to the map first, which was of France, and marked an X over a little spot in the south. Is small, cramped letters, he scrawled out an address beside it.

"There is an old church in Bayeux, though when Mordecai moved there in the first century BC it was called Augustodurum. Mordecai's manor is just outside of the city, but he has a hidden entrance in the crypts of the cathedral. There is a mural there of the Virgin Mary and the Son. One must press their flesh to that of the Lord and, be they one who wishes Mordecai no harm, they will be allowed to pass."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up, clearly skeptical.

"Just like that?"

"It is not so simple as it sounds. The enchantments put into place are extremely powerful. No one is getting in that way that is not meant to."

"And what defenses will Mordecai have mounted? He does not seem the type to leave such a fortress unguarded and this killer will likely set up his own defenses where Mordecai's used to be."

As it turned out, Mordecai was a pretty paranoid individual. Defenses were kept at regular intervals all around him manor, as well as inside. They were predominately magic-based and decidedly nasty. Whoever this Nosferu was who had a rivalry going with Mordecai, Sherlock was reasonably sure he wouldn't want to be in the middle of it. Udi then moved on to the possible places in the manor where the killer could be holding John.

"I don't think I need to tell you how hard it would be to hold a vampire of John's strength captive. There are only three areas within the manor that would have the restraints required."

Flamel piped into the conversation then.

"What if he cast an Eternal Sleep on him? That would keep him so sedated that he wouldn't even need to bother with restraints."

Sherlock was already shaking his head while Udi stared at the alchemist like he was the biggest idiot in the world.

"The Eternal Sleep spell tampers too much with the magic that runs inside of a being. It would taint the magic in John's blood and render it unusable for his purposes. No, this killer is definitely keeping him restrained."

Udi shot Sherlock an approving look, which really didn't look much different from his earlier glares, before nodding.

"As I said, there are three rooms where John could be restrained, here," he marked a spot of the blueprints for each location, "here, and here. This first mark is Mordecai's safe room. He built it in case the manor was ever overrun by Nosferu's forces. It is impregnable by anyone other than Mordecai himself. It reads the signature of a creature's magic and will destroy anything that does not match Mordecai's exactly."

That was impressive magic. A signature wasn't something that could be faked, meaning that the only person able to access that room was Mordecai himself. Unfortunately, that rather ruled it out as a possibility.

"Next."

"The dungeons underneath the manor were built to house supernatural creatures, meaning they are much more resistant than a normal prison. The more powerful cells would have the ability to restrain a vampire of John's capabilities. They were built to imprison the high officials of Nosferu's line, but Mordecai is nothing if not thorough."

The dungeons presented some possibility, but Sherlock found it highly unlikely. The killer's psychosis would not allow him to see his victims as people. Rather, they were just ingredients, more along the lines of an animal to be sacrificed. He would not be able to think of John as a prisoner because he would not be able to so much as see the doctor as a person. Putting him in a prison cell would conflict with his views.

"Next."

"The last possibility would be the labs. Mordecai has always had a penchant for messing around and trying to create new spells. He's also been hailed as huge supporter of the sciences and would often invite scientists or alchemists to use the labs in his private home. Of course, he would wipe their memories of its location, but it provided the opportunity for a number of the world's greatest inventions."

Flamel nodded thoughtfully.

"I have heard about the labs, though I never went myself. I had no need for them. I already had myself a sexy, vampire sponsor."

If the look on Udi's face was anything to go by, the alchemist wasn't winning any friends with his references to his and John's previous relationship. Sherlock wasn't paying any attention, though. The labs would provide the perfect opportunity to keep John properly restrained while not interfering with the killer's psychosis.

He glanced around the group, lingering particularly on Bill and Benedicta. There would be no way they would let him run into a situation that involved facing down the killer. Where ever John was being held, there was likely to be a lot of danger there, too. Still...he had to be there when they reached John. He had to be.

"Definitely not. The killer wouldn't keep John so close to his work. He'd definitely keep him in the dungeon. It's the only logical explanation of all of the facts."

Ok, so it was really more like one explanation of some of the facts, but they didn't need to know that. Benedicta nodded sharply.

"Then we will plan our attack to reach the dungeon levels as quickly as possible. Thank you, Father, for your help."

Udi just shrugged for his face lit up upon seeing something behind the group.

"Charon! I did not know you were here!"

The man approaching did not look nearly so excited. He balanced two pizza boxes in one hand and looked so done.

"Hey, Udi. Listen, I've got to run these up to Satan real quick. Would you mind showing our guests the way out the back door?"

Udi winked and made a hand gesture similar to shooting a gun in the man's direction, but gave no verbal response as Charon bid the others goodbye and headed for the lift. Folding the map and blueprints, Sherlock tucked them away in the duffle bag still slung over his shoulder. They all stood, silently agreeing that it was time to go. As Udi guided them across the store and past the bread station into the area where the bread was made, he leveled Benedicta with a very serious look.

"You will need more than just stealth and the wits of five people to get into Mordecai's manor. It has not stood for so long because it is easily penetrated. I will contact your brothers. They will meet you there and provide whatever assistance is needed. Remember, Benedicta, you are my only daughter and I will not tolerate having to replace you."

"Of course, sir."

Despite the stiffness of her response, Sherlock could still tell the woman was pleased. She was not quite so when Udi then turned to look sternly at Bill.

"Let me make one thing clear to you." He leaned in close to Bill's face. "If you hurt her, I will ensure that your soul goes someplace much, much worse than you could possibly imagine. There's a special Hell for people who dare to harm my daughter…a very special Hell…"

For the first time since their acquaintance, Sherlock saw something like fear flicker across Bill's face before it was replaced by a wide grin.

"Sounds like fun!"

Udi spared him one last glare before gesturing to a pair of frosted glass doors next to the bread oven.

"Step through those and you'll be right back where you started." He turned away and strode back towards the market with a casual wave over his shoulder. "You'll be hearing from me."

The doors opened easily to the touch and the group soon found themselves standing back on the grassy field of Purgatory. They'd come out through the front door of the castle, the very door Hendricus had told them would steal their souls if they tried to pass through.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

Ignoring Flamel's rather predictable tantrum, Sherlock made his way around the castle. Lestrade followed after, understandably a bit curious as to what the consultant was up to. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

Cerberus was exactly where he had left him, staring pitifully at the doors that led to the lift room. His tail twitched from side to side a bit in an almost-wag, but other than that he was completely still. Apparently, he followed the stay command very well.

Sticking both hand in the pockets of his coat, Sherlock clicked his tongue once, drawing the attention of the huge animal. Almost instantly, Cerberus was on his feet and bounding towards them, as excited as a puppy getting a visitor. His tail wagged so enthusiastically that it shook his entire body.

The command of sit was quickly delivered and the dog did so immediately, thumping down on the ground right in front of them and tongue hanging out of all three mouths. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"His familiarity with John's scent will come quite in handy while we attempt to locate him and he has already proved to be quite competent in battle. It would be foolish not to take advantage of such an opportunity."

Lestrade gave him a look that said he wasn't buying it for an instant.

"Why, Sherlock, I never knew you had such a soft spot for animals."

The consultant glared at his mocking tone and scoffed.

"Hardly. The assets he will provide only barely offset the inconvenience his sheer size will cause, not to mention his over-abundance of energy."

As if in response to his words, and given the intelligence in the beast's eyes it likely was, Cerberus's form began to shrink. Skin pulled taut and bones seemed to fold in on themselves. At the end of what appeared to be a rather painful transition, the dog that stood before them was no larger than wolf, back coming level with Sherlock's hip, and looked very much like a German Sheppard. It helped matters that only one head remained visible, too.

Somehow, this had all been a physical change, otherwise Sherlock and Lestrade would have been able to see through the glamour to see the beast's alternate form. They both stared in shock. Cerberus yipped in excitement and pushed his head into Sherlock's palm, prompting the consultant into petting him a few times before he caught himself and snatched him hand away.

"Well, that is at least less inconveniencing. I suppose it will do."

Lestrade grinned at him.

"Oh face it, Sherlock, you like him!"

"I'd like it a lot better if it could show us the way out of here. The door Hendricus used sealed when he departed through it."

Cerberus yipped again ran several paces away before turning and looking back. Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a look.

"Do you think…?"

"Don't be an idiot. It's obvious he can understand human speech. Come, we should get the others. It appears we have gotten ourselves a guide out of Hell."


	12. To Be True To Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group returns from Hell to make some startling discoveries...and Flamel gives Sherlock a thing or two to think about.

The sun of Santorini glared down from the bright sky and Sherlock had to lift one hand to shield his eyes after the dimness of Hell. They had left for Hell at midafternoon…how was it midday again? Had they somehow spent the night in Hell and it was already Wednesday? It certainly hadn't felt like it. Cerberus had led them right out of Purgatory and back onto the white sandy beaches of the island paradise. The consulting detective turned to his companions.

"We need to get in touch with Helsing and Carl to find out how they are faring with the Vatican."

It didn't take long for the group to call. Both Benedicta and Flamel had their cell phone numbers. Assuming control as usual, it was Sherlock who wound up making the call. It rang twice before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Helsing, excellent. We need to discu-"

"Hello? Anyone there? Damn it, I hate using these bloody things. Whoever thought this was a good idea?"

A new voice joined Helsing's on the other end of the line and it took Sherlock mere moments to place it as Carl's.

"Oh, hand it over, you old man. Look, you've got the volume turned all the way down. No wonder you can't hear anything." There was a brief pause before Carl spoke again. "Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Ah! Sherlock! Thank goodness! We had begun to worry when we didn't hear from you in so long. What happened?"

"We secured Udi's cooperation in giving us information about Mordecai's manor as well as a promise of assistance from his spawn. It took only a few hours, we thought."

"Then where were you the rest of the time?"

"What?"

"Sherlock, you guys left on Tuesday, it's already Thursday…"

Well, that certainly threw the consulting detective for a loop and he blinked in surprise. Apparently time moved at a different pace in Hell. With the killer's pattern being to strike every Friday, though, that meant they were running out of time.

"We shall have to hurry, then. How did you fair with the Vatican?"

"They were able to patch Van Helsing up pretty well, gave him some healing potions and the like, but they have refused to provided assistance in getting John back, the great gits. It seems they're still mad about John being the one to show Helsing that he didn't have to fight for the church to fight for good. But we haven't been completely idle in your absence."

Sherlock could practically hear the grin coming from the other man.

"The Winter Queen has offered up half of her personal guard, that'd be twenty warriors, to help us in taking this bloke down. And the second victim, Ms. Tolbert, seems to have had some friends after all. A flock of seventeen Harpies has promised their aid to us. Van Helsing reached out to the Were community, too, and they're chomping at the bit for some action. Their numbers will, of course, depend on the location of the manor. We just have to tell them where to meet us."

"Bayeux. It's a little town near Normandy, France. I will leave you to take care of the communications. The two of you should meet us back at Flamel's manor as soon as possible. We'll be headed there shortly."

"Will do. See you soon!"

Sherlock disconnected before relaying the information to the others. Flamel was already putting the finishing touches on the portal back to this manor that he had prepped earlier. He would have to set up a new one to France once they were back at the manor, which would not be so easy or so quick. It would take a couple of hours for the prep, but would save them all the time they did not have to travel there through the traditional methods.

Benedicta seemed pleased with the additional forces and talked battle strategies with Bill as they returned to the manor and waited for Carl and his lover. It appeared that he was as proficient a strategist as he was purported to be a fighter. Her body was turned slightly towards the other man and Sherlock smirked at the change in her posture. He'd be surprised if the two didn't get together before the group even reached France…not that they would admit to it.

Thoughts of their happiness, though, brought Sherlock's own back to John. They knew he was alive, because the fallout of John dying meant that all of his spawn would die, too, and that hadn't happened. Still, Sherlock could not help but shiver at the thought of what could be happening to him. It didn't escape the detective that there were much worse things than death and that their killer was not likely to spare John these treatments just because he planned to use the doctor's blood for the stone.

The human body could be drained of blood in 8.6 seconds, given proper vacuuming equipment. Accompanied by magic, that time could be cut in half. What was much more horrifying, though, was how long that same procedure could be drawn out. While the killer wanted John's blood for the stone, it would stand to reason that he may also try to use it for other spells or experiments.

Sherlock did not like the thought of someone harming John. He did not like it at all. While he disregarded sentiment with a fervor with which most people embraced it, he had grown attached to the man. He'd said it as a joke originally, but he really was lost without his blogger. Flamel's approach drew him from his thoughts.

"C'mon. I need to set up the portal to France and an extra pair of mildly competent hands could be of use. Anyone else here would just muck the whole thing up."

Wanting to keep his mind off thoughts that could easily grow dark, Sherlock followed after the man. It soon became apparent, though, that he had ulterior motives in asking for Sherlock's assistance. He worked for a bit, drawing symbols and grids and explaining how each thing functioned before pausing.

"I still love him, you know…John, I mean."

His head was bowed, which meant he wanted to avoid even the threat of eye contact. That, coupled with the tenseness in his shoulders, told Sherlock exactly how uncomfortable the alchemist was with this conversation. Good, the brunette felt the same way.

"I know."

"I've lost him, though. I know that. I may flirt with him shamelessly, but he's never coming back. John isn't the type to go back to something that's broken."

"He likes fixing things."

Sherlock nearly kicked himself. Why was he giving Flamel encouragement?

"Not like this. We were great together." A wistful expression appeared on the other's face. "There were times when I was brand new into this life and there was so much information about the supernatural world to learn and I just felt like I was drowning…John lifted me up out of that, taught me how everything worked. Hell, he saved my life the first time we met. He believed in my work and encouraged me…I only regret that I succeeded."

"You got greedy."

"Not immediately...and no overnight. But soon it was like I just couldn't help myself. He was forgiving at first, but all I wanted was big houses and fancy parties. I stood him up more than once because some big name in the supernatural community came knocking. I brushed him aside like he was nothing. In the end, I'm the one who drove him away and I don't even blame him for leaving. He stayed a lot longer than I would have."

He finally looked up to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"We are very alike, you and I. We both have a drive to learn and create new things. But we also share a weakness. We love attention and we hate to be bored. Great minds and all that…I just don't want to see you make the same mistakes I did."

He was certainly sincere in his words, though they were misguided.

"I don't love John."

Sherlock hadn't expected exactly how much saying those words would hurt. His chest constricted sharply and he blinked in surprise at his body's reaction. Flamel just gave him a pitying look and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Whatever you have to tell yourself. I told you, we are very alike. You can't hide it from me, even if you insist upon hiding it from yourself. Just remember not to wait too long."

Flamel turned back to the portal, using his bone chalk to add a detail here and there. There were no more explanations about what each component did, but Sherlock hardly noticed. He was much too busy turning his attention inwards. For all of his deductive skills, the constriction in his chest that wasn't letting up was downright befuddling.

Logically, he knew what it meant. His pulse sped up at the thought of John, not just the thought of him in danger. He could recognize that his own body was attracted to John aesthetically. Just because he regarded such things as transport didn't mean that he was completely oblivious to them. Sure, the first time he'd woken up from a dream starring his flat mate to find he'd soiled his sleep pants he'd been…alarmed, but it didn't take long to push such things aside.

It was easy to see how his body would get mixed signals about the one person who had willingly stayed beside him for so long. John was his best friend and his body just took those feelings of affection a step too far. Sherlock had ignored the implications of such things in favor of focusing his mind on more pressing matters, such as bacterial cultures and fingers in the vegetable drawer. If the brunette found himself enjoying these dreams, well, he ignored that, too.

But lust wasn't the only factor when calculating such feelings. Sherlock called upon the research of Helen Fisher, a psychologist from an American University to further examine the odd phenomenon. It was Fisher's belief that humans fell in love in three stages. Lust was only the first.

Attraction could be broken down into three main chemicals; dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin. Of these chemicals, the first two were ones that John and Sherlock encountered on a near daily basis. However, there were more subtle signs that Sherlock could follow to find his answers. Dopamine was a chemical that could also be activated by cocaine and nicotine, two addictions Sherlock had experience with. It didn't take a consulting detective to know that Sherlock's cravings for both substances were getting fewer and farther between the longer he spent with the doctor.

He'd chalked it up to the fact that he had gone so long without. He'd kicked the cocaine habit before John had even come along and his nicotine addiction was mostly only fueled by patches as a way of helping him think. Since John's arrival into his life, though, it seemed he'd had much less of a need for assistance in thinking. As he'd once told the man, he was a brilliant conductor of light.

Norepinephrine was a bit harder to pin down, though the signs were still there. The more common name for the chemical was adrenalin, something neither Sherlock nor John were in short supply of. Still, Sherlock couldn't stop his mind from bringing up the many times when John had entered the room and his heart rate had soared he'd suddenly felt warm. Such incidents were usually followed up by a brilliant deduction or a break in whatever problem Sherlock had been working on. He'd certainly never attributed it to John's mere presence.

Serotonin was, by far, the easiest to explain. Sherlock was pretty sure he would have been secreting it more often since meeting John even if he weren't attracted to the man. (And by now, he was largely ready to admit that.) John made him happy. He was Sherlock's best, and only, friend. The brunette's lips twitched at the thought of the second night since they'd met, when John had shot the cabbie and then giggled right along with the detective at the crime scene.

Yes, he was definitely secreting a high level of serotonin.

It was the final stage of Fisher's theory that gave Sherlock the most trouble, the stage of attachment. Sherlock didn't have a problem admitting that he felt attached to John. After all, he'd be lost without his blogger. However, that didn't mean that he was attached to him in a romantic sense.

Oxytocin was a chemical thought to be released by both sexes during the act of coitus. The secretion of such a chemical would promote bonding between the pair. The general theory was that the more sex a couple had, the more attached they would be to each other. However, seeing as how Sherlock and John had never had sex, it could hardly apply to them. The same logic could be applied to the chemical vasopressin.

Even without the information from this final stage, Sherlock felt that he could safely come to a conclusion. It was a ridiculous notion, almost silly. It went against everything he had ever believed in and it was not likely to end well, but Flamel was right. The truth could not be ignored any longer.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with his flat mate.

The realization was so shocking that it jarred Sherlock right out of his mind palace. He blinked at finding Bill's face so suddenly close to his own and the soldier quickly backed off.

"Hey, hey! Welcome back to the world of the living!"

A quick glance around the room revealed that Van Helsing and Carl had both arrived. They were chatting with Benedicta and Lestrade about battle plans while Flamel put the finishing touches on the portal. Bill's exclamation drew the attention of the others, though. Before long, Sherlock was up to date on all the new developments that had taken place and Flamel was activating the portal.

One of Benedicta's acquaintances, of which she seemed to have quite a few, ran a small hostel just 20 minutes outside of Bayeux. Flamel's portal deposited them right into her courtyard. As soon as the world stopped spinning, an older woman stepped forward to greet the group warmly.

Her white hair was cut short and framed her kind face nicely. She reminded Sherlock a lot of Mrs. Hudson, with the exception that this woman was almost as tall as Sherlock himself. She smiled widely as she shook hands with each of them. She wrapped Benedicta up warmly in a hug before tittering off something in rapid French. Apparently dinner was ready.

Sherlock turned away from the group to cast a critical eye over the building. It was almost a compound, really. The blue, stucco walls surrounded a shrubby courtyard. Rooms ran along one wall, while the other held a communal room with computers and entertainment systems. A gate stood between the two, an archway through which Sherlock could see inside. At the far side of courtyard the wall dipped down into a glass-sided building. A long stone table was set out within.

He stepped through the archway and into the courtyard, leaving the others to meet their hostess. The whole place was a bit rundown, but it would serve their purpose. The group simply needed a place to form their battle plan.

Dinner didn't take long, though it was expertly cooked. Each of their party was much more focused on getting done what needed to be done. They were so close to rescuing John. It felt almost wrong to stop to eat. For Sherlock's part, he barely ate two bites. He didn't eat when a case was one and this one was more important than any other.

After they'd cleared the table, they spread out several maps, both the ones they'd gotten from Udi and several more from their Hostess, who's name Sherlock had learned was Yvonne. She'd lived in the area her whole life, but kept maps on hand for the tourists and students who so often boarded with her.

Using the maps as guides, they went over the plan of attack. Bill, Benedicta, Flamel, Lestrade, Cerberus, and Sherlock would go through the tunnel under the church. Once inside, Bill and Benedicta would head towards the dungeons to rescue John while Flamel and the others would seek out and destroy the alchemic components that Frenchie would have set up inside Mordecai's manor.

Van Helsing and Carl would lead the Were forces, along with the Harpies and the Fae, in a frontal assault against the manor. The idea was to create a diversion and hopefully to draw out the killer. Udi's spawn would flow between the ranks, aiding where it was needed. They would be led by the devil Shmuel, right hand to Satan. Shmuel was forbidden to use his powers on Earth, and so would stay in Hell, keeping watch over the battle and using his abilities to transport enemies to his realm where he could dispatch them as he saw fit.

They all decided that a few hours of sleep would be beneficial before their huge battle. With the planning taken care of by 11pm, the group began to retire. They'd head out again at 4am, before anyone was at the church to disturb them. Benedicta tracked Sherlock down in the courtyard as he was heading to his room.

"I know you're not happy about being kept out of the action."

"I am only human. I would be too much of a liability to put me in the action. It is only logical to give me the side work."

"I just wanted you to know that Bill and I will get John back. We will bring him back to you in one piece, so just…don't do anything stupid."

"Stupid?"

"Your doctor would never forgive us if we let something happen to you."

"He has always been quick to put others before himself."

"It's more than just that. I've seen the way he looks at you. I've only ever seen him look at one other person like that, Mary Morstan Du Laine. He can't go through another loss like that one."

"That is the woman Charon mentioned…Who is she?"

"Was. The proper question is 'Who was she' and you'll have to ask John that once we've got him back home safely."

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I like you, Sherlock Holmes. You're not bad for a human and you make John happy. If you hurt him, though, there will be no Pit of Hell deep enough, no star far enough away, for you to hide from me."

Sherlock raised his head to meet her heated glare.

"You are in luck, then. I have no such intentions."

She nodded sharply.

"So we are clear then, I want you nowhere near those dungeons tomorrow."

"I assure you, there is no danger of that."

Sherlock saw her eyes narrow as he turned away, but he couldn't be bothered to care. As long as she didn't get in his way, it didn't matter if she was suspicious. By the time she figured out his plan, it would be too late.

JWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSH

As predicted, there was no one in the area when they arrived at the church the following morning. Flamel crouched by the door and inspected the lock before pulling a bone-like key from his pocket. An unfamiliar voice spoke up from just past Sherlock's elbow.

"An Anywhere Key? How did you get your hands on one of those?"

The group turned to see a buff…man with short hair that came together atop his head in something that could almost be considered a Mohawk. Ram horns sprouted from his temples and cloven hooves perched atop the cobblestone street. Leather wings stretched behind his back and his uncovered torso was streaked with a mess of red and black. It wasn't hard to imagine that this was a creature of Hell and it was a fact only confirmed when he bowed slightly and introduced himself.

"I am Shmuel. It's a pleasure, I'm sure."

His entire presence had a darkness to it that seemed even more stark against the light tan stone and the huge stained glass windows. It had a way of drawing one's attention to him and holding it there. Sherlock had to give himself a shake as Benedicta stepped forward to wrap the devil in a hug.

"It's been far too long. What are you doing here?"

"What was I supposed to do? Stay in Hell and miss the chance to see my little girl? You didn't even stop by to say hello when you visited."

"I'm sorry, we were a bit preoccupied."

Sherlock took in the way Benedicta was completely comfortable with the devil and blinked in surprise. Who would have guessed that Udi had chosen a romantic partner from among the legions of Hell. Still, there were more important things to attend to.

Flamel slipped the key into the church's door as Shmuel bid the brunette woman goodbye and vanished once again before the group's eyes. Sherlock made a mental note to study up a bit more on the abilities of devils. The doors swung open to reveal a hugely spacious interior, though the consulting detective spared it hardly a glance.

He strode purposefully across the floor to the steps leading down beneath the altar. These were the stairs that would take them into the crypts. Once they had descended into the sandstone room, it was easy to locate the painting. It wasn't exactly hidden away.

The Virgin Mary cradled her son in her arms as he appeared to be teaching a member of the clergymen. The paint was old and chipping away, but the picture was still clear. Udi had said they would need to press their flesh against that of the baby Jesus. If there were any malicious intentions towards Mordecai, the door would remain sealed to them and their mission would become next to impossible.

Sherlock would forever deny that his hand shook as he reached out to make contact with the painting. For a long moment, nothing happened and the brunette almost started to pull his hand back before a deep rumble sounded throughout the crypt. With the sound of stone scraping against stone, the entire mural slid backwards and then off to one side. A dark corridor was revealed to the group, stretching farther than they could see. The secret passageway was open.

Flamel pulled out several components he'd prepared in advance and laid them out on the ground. Being inside of a church lent him power to certain spells. One such spell was to summon a spectral ally to assist him in battle. The added firepower would prove useful if they came across any problems while in the manor.

The suit of armor Flamel used to house the spell was clearly custom made. Made of almost entirely silver and sapphire stones, it was more slender than most traditional armor. It was clearly designed more to mimic the human form than to cover it.

Thanks to the amount of prep work he had done for the spell, it didn't take the alchemist more than a few minutes to get everything set up. Less than twenty minutes after that, his glowing blue guardian was standing proudly within the group's midst. The energy was magic, but appeared almost electrical. It gripped a long spear and stared alertly into the corridor with eyes of the same electric blue magic. Its feet hovered several inches above the ground.

An excellent plus side to the summon was that it eliminated a need for torches in the tunnel. Sherlock figured that it was about time Flamel started being useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, this is it! There is only ONE CHAPTER LEFT and then the epilogue! Wow! Thank you all for sticking with this story for so long! I hope you enjoy the conclusion! I know I REALLY enjoyed writing it!


	13. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group finally arrives to get John out of their enemy's clutches...but plans never seem to go as expected.

By Sherlock's inner clock, it took them about an hour to trek through the stone corridor that had been hidden behind the church's mural. To be precise, it had taken exactly 57.483 minutes. The consulting detective had once invented an equation to measure time based on the rhythm of his heartbeat and found the information too useful to be deleted.

The corridor ended in a large stone door, knob and key hole to one side. Flamel stepped up to examine the piece by the light of his summon. From Sherlock's position behind the man, the pieces appeared to be made of brass but were tarnished beyond repair. Flamel withdrew the same key from his pocket that he had used at the church.

Sherlock took the opportunity to take a closer look at the key this time around. Flamel had been quick to hide the bauble away when Shmuel called attention to it outside the church. It. appeared to be made of tiny bones, the back of the key formed by vertebrae while the teeth were the fingers of a hand gripping the spine, and it was stained black. The handle formed a diamond shape with a small gem in the middle.

Shmuel had called it an Anywhere Key, something that Sherlock had heard mentioned within the tomes of Flamel's library, but still knew very little about. It was a key that could unlock any door and supposedly, in the right hands, turn any door into a passageway somewhere else. Some sources believed that there was only ever one Anywhere Key made, while additional tomes counted up to ten keys. Other reports said that it was only a myth, that if the keys ever existed, they were no longer of this world.

The key slid easily into place, despite the grime covering the lock. As Flamel went to turn it however, an electrical current shot about the key and up his arm, visible to the rest of the group as a bolt of lightning. Flamel cried out as he fell to the floor, the key clattering against the stone beside him. The shock wracked Flamel's body, his spine arching upwards for a few seconds before his collapsed completely, gasping for breath.

"This, this right here, is why I hate the bloody French." Flamel groaned as Lestrade helped him to his feet. "They're too paranoid for their own bloody good."

"I do so hate being the bearer of bad news, Flamel," Sherlock drawled as he crouched to pick up the fallen key, "but you're French, too."

The moment Sherlock touched the key it was like there was an explosion behind his eyes. Images of a dark haired individual flashed through his mind, the figure sometimes a woman and sometimes a man, but always with the same dark eyes. A voice whispered in his ear.

 _'Set me free, Sherlock Holmes, and I can give you everything you have ever desired.'_ An image of John interrupted the slide of the stranger's face, _'Your heart will never have to hurt again.'_

As suddenly as it was there, though, the voice was gone. Sherlock blinked as the hallway was suddenly in front of him again. Flamel's face was staring down at him, concerned. The consultant's gaze followed the other's hand as it slipped the key back into his pocket.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

The brunette blinked again, trying to come back to himself.

"What…was that?"

"An unfortunate side effect of handling the Key. I have enchantments to protect myself against it, but they don't work for others. You should not have picked it up."

Lestrade's face loomed in the background.

"Well, that's Sherlock for you, always getting into things he shouldn't."

"Perhaps a little warning next time you're carrying a questionable object we shouldn't touch?"

Flamel hummed and the group turned back to the door. Sherlock leaned in close to examine the knob. The alchemist frowned behind him.

"The Key is supposed to open any door, but the enchantment here prevents you from even turning a key. What's the point of letting someone into this passage if you can't get into the manor?"

"It's impossibly simple. Have you really not figured it out?" Sherlock smirked at the befuddled man and pressed a thumb to the lock before turning it to the side, the keyhole turning with him. The door swung open before them. "We get into the manor the same way we got into the corridor."

Sherlock was the first through the doorway, Cerberus hot on his heels. The dog apparently didn't much like that his new Master had already been compromised once on their journey. He immediately set up sniffing the corners of the new room. Shelves lined the wall of what was clearly a pantry, though a large one.

A door stood at the other end and Sherlock glanced back to see the last of the party squeeze into the room. The back wall of the pantry, which was the door they'd come through, swung once more into place to reveal the suit of armor it had been hidden behind. Sherlock could practically hear Flamel rolling his eyes.

"A suit of armor? Really? I had no idea Mordecai was so cliché."

Ignoring the man, Sherlock reached for the knob of the pantry door, turning it and swinging it open. Cerberus squeezed past his legs to beat him to the corridor that was revealed. He wasn't going to let his Master go unprotected. The group was soon in the corridor and Sherlock pulled out the map of the manor that Udi had provided them.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be _kidding_ me!"

Surprised by the alchemist's exclamation, Sherlock looked over to find that the pantry door had swung shut to be disguised as a bookshelf. Closer inspection revealed that the titles were all along the lines of 'The Secret Garden' and 'The Da Vinci Code'.

"Focus, Flamel, we're here on a mission. Mordecai's eccentricities are of no concern to us."

Benedicta sent him a hard look to follow up her words and peered at the map that Sherlock was holding. She pointed to a small mark that Udi had made upon it.

"We are here. Bill and I will take this passage down to the dungeons. Will you three be able to handle finding your way around?"

Folding the map back up, having already committed the entirety of it to memory, Sherlock handed it back to her.

"Undoubtedly."

She nodded sharply before moving on to Flamel's side and saying something to him in a hushed voice. The blonde's eyes flickered to Sherlock and he glared in return. Of course she wouldn't make things easy for him. If he wanted the chance to slip away to find John, he would have to wait patiently. Benedicta being suspicious was one thing, but Flamel had been right when he said that he and Sherlock were very similar. It would be a lot harder to get past him.

The two warriors set off down the hall and the trio that remained set off in the other direction. It was likely that any alchemic spells would be set up near the front of the manor, with more proximity to their targets. Mordecai had a large, glass-fronted foyer that would be excellent for overseeing the battle. It would be a good place to start.

The manor was suspiciously devoid of inhabitants, guards and otherwise, and they didn't meet any resistance on their way to the front hall. Flamel's summon hovered close to his back and Cerberus trotted between Sherlock and Lestrade, keeping them both close enough to easily defend. It was surprising, really, the lack of resistance they met. Sherlock would have thought that Mordecai would have kept better security.

They reached the foyer to, as predicted, find a number of alchemic circles drawn on the floor. Flamel hurried forward into the room and stooped to examine the first of the twelve.

"These are holding wards. They supply power to a trap or barrier at another location. Likely, they're tied to spells that are raining fire or other nastiness down on Helsing's forces. Those over there," he pointed to several more circles across the room, "are summoning circles. The demons or devils who were brought to this plane could be quite problematic…especially considering that more than one creature can be summoned by a single circle, if the spell if performed correctly."

"If we destroy the circle, will they be sent back?"

Flamel shook his head.

"Not at all. They'll be set free from the Frenchie's control, but that probably won't affect them attacking our forces. The devils, though, will be weakened by the loss of the connection to their home plane. That will help."

"Alright then, how do we do it?'

And so they set to work, Cerberus and the summon keeping watch at the door. Flamel showed them which lines and runes to destroy. Several of the trap spells he was able to alter and re-establish to attack the Frenchman's forces. It was delicate business, though, as one wrong move could trigger a backlash of magic that would likely kill them.

As they worked, Sherlock could not help but continue to circle back to the lack of guards within the manor. Surely an individual with this killer's level of paranoia would strive for more protection. It didn't make any sense that he would not have added security inside his house. His eyes slid around the room before alighting on Flamel's bent back as he worked on redirecting another spell.

Mouth forming an 'O', Sherlock realized his mistake. They hadn't encountered any security because their enemy hadn't wanted them to. They'd been lured in. No…not them…Flamel…

Cerberus's threatening growl filled the air as a figure appeared in the doorway that lead back into the manor. The same man from the warehouse stood there, smirking at the trio. Sherlock felt another rush of hatred for the man who had taken John away from him.

"Well isn't this just cute? The great Nicholas Flamel working so hard to protect his precious _amis._ You really shouldn't bother, _ils vont tout simplement mourir de toute facon._ "

Flamel rose slowly, turning to face the one who stole his work and killed so many.

"We shall see who dies this day, _voleur._ "

The killer chucked at that.

"Enough words, _Alchimiste._ Let us end this. There is only enough room for one alchemic genius in this world and I do so hate competition."

Flamel smirked.

"It can only be a competition if the other person is a challenge!"

His summon was at his side in an instant, the blue magic swirling around the blonde's form and melding with his own energy. The enchanted armor spun its spear expertly to aim at the older gentleman and Flamel's smile had turned cruel.

"Come at me, Bro."

The shockwave from the two powerful forces colliding sent Sherlock and Lestrade stumbling backwards. Neither fighter had the concentration to spare on witty banter as they traded blows. For the killer, this was an opportunity to bring down another of the people who represented what he was not. Flamel represented the magic that he wished to achieve. Powerful and recognized throughout the world, he had the influence that the killer dreamed of. Killing Flamel would be much the same as eliminating Mordecai. It would confirm the killer's own belief that what he was doing was right.

Beside Sherlock, Lestrade pulled out the gun they had once again gotten from Carl. He might not be able to take on the vampiric magic user by himself, but he could certainly help Flamel by providing backup. In another situation, Sherlock would likely have joined him in the same strategy. Now, though, he had bigger things that needed to be taken care of.

While the attention of the others was on the fight, Sherlock eased his way back toward the hall from which the killer had come and was soon making his escape. The clicking of claws against the stone floor alerted him to the fact that at least Cerberus had noticed his diversion from the group. If anything, though, the great dog's presence made him feel more comfortable with heading into an unknown situation.

With the map of the manor pulled up in his mind, it took Sherlock and his canine companion less than five minutes to find the entrance to the labs. The brunette hesitated only briefly with his hand on the door before pushing it open and entering the most likely location of his blogger's imprisonment.

The surfaces of the lab were all stainless steel and glass, the equipment clearly more up to date than the rest of the manor. The entire room was kept almost militantly clean, too, though Sherlock could not be sure if that was a product of the killer or a habit of Mordecai's as well. A row of five caged cells lined the back wall of the lab, much sturdier than the temporary cages at Baskerville. These had clearly been made to last and stand up to some seriously powerful occupants.

One of the cells had bindings wrapped around the door, one that Sherlock recognized from one of the oldest books in Flamel's study. Bindings were ancient written spells that amplified the power of a cell or cage. They were simplistic in their design, but powerful. It was hard to break one from the inside, but very easy to set up and take down. Sherlock knew where he would find his blonde love.

Moving to the cage, he peered through the bars. A figure lay slumped against the back wall and for a moment, Sherlock's heart stopped. The dirty blonde hair was instantly recognizable to him, even disheveled as it was, but John was too still. His normally tan skin was pale and grey in a way that was quite different from when he transformed into his vampiric form and it was drawn tight against his bones. With his head bowed, the consultant was unable to see his friend's eyes.

It was only the movement of the other's chest that kept Sherlock from believing he was too late. John was breathing in short, quick breathes that reminded the detective of someone hyperventilating. It disturbed the brunette that this was the only movement he could see from the man.

It didn't take much to deduce that John hadn't been given any blood while held captive. Likely, he hadn't been fed at all. But the severity of his situation also suggested that the killer had already taken at least some of his blood, most probably for experiments that had to do with the Stone or for spells.

When doing his research in Flamel's study, Sherlock had purposely avoided any tome that dealt with the effects of draining a vampire of blood. He hadn't been able to bring himself to read about the things that had likely been inflicted upon John and, standing in front of the cell, Sherlock found himself cursing his own failure to sentiment.

Likely, the removal would leave them very drained of energy, as with other creatures. The best thing for John would be to get him out of that cell and to those who could help him. Sherlock set to work removing the bindings that held the door closed, tearing through several in his desperation to get to his friend.

Cerberus whined and snuffled at Sherlock's side, pressing one flank against the detective's flank. The brunette reached one hand down to pat his head soothingly.

"Don't worry. We'll get him home soon."

Pulling the last of the binding away, Sherlock swung the door of the cage open with an awful creaking of hinges. John didn't even twitch at the noise and the detective approached him slowly, like one would a wounded animal. Cerberus all but pranced at the doorway to the cell with nerves.

"John? John, it's Sherlock."

The blonde gave no response and Sherlock was soon right in front of him, crouched down low to be at his height. Tentatively, he reached out to touch his best friend's shoulder.

"John?"

In a flash, a pain blossomed in Sherlock's chest and he suddenly found himself flying through the air and crashing to the floor outside of his cell. There was no time for his brain to catch up as suddenly John was above him. Kind John, Doctor John, his best friend, his flat mate, his blogger, his heart. Except John's eyes were a pitch black and his fangs were extended out past his lip. In moments, those fangs had sunk themselves deep into Sherlock's throat.

The pain was indescribable. It burned and bubbled like fire and ice, like nothing Sherlock had ever experienced before. He opened his mouth to scream but couldn't get the sound out past the blood that was pooling there. He was going to die…and it was John who was going to kill him.

A force from the side suddenly slams John's off of the consultant, a chunk of pale neck being ripped off in the process. Cerberus crouched in front of the brunette as he struggled to rise, facing the blonde and growling savagely. He'd doubled in size, easily as large as a horse, and his additional heads had returned. Liquid fire rolled and dripped from his jowls as he stood between the two flat mates. It didn't appear to faze John in the slightest.

They clashed in a whirlwind of claws and teeth, each trying to rip the other apart, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to concentrate on it. He clutched his neck with one hand, trying fruitlessly to stem the bleeding as he stumbled for the door back into the hall. He had to get someone, had to warn someone.

The floor tilted beneath his feet and he felt his shoulder slam into the wall of the corridor. At least he was still standing. The sounds of the lab being destroyed behind him, he inched his way down the hall. Which way had it been to the foyer?

He breathed too deep and nearly fell as the air caught on the blood in his throat and he had to double over, blood spraying from his lips. Scarlet dripped down his chin and down his neck. It covered his chest and abdomen. His hands and forearms were covering in it from where he'd tried to stem the wound in his neck.

How had all that blood come from him? A human shouldn't be able to bleed this much.

A crash resounded in the corridor and suddenly the wall and ceiling mere meters in front of Sherlock exploded into debris. No…that wasn't right…Hadn't John and Cerberus been fighting behind him? Why were they fighting again?

But it wasn't John and the Hound of Hell. Flamel glowed bright blue with magic, glints of silver flashing behind his back. He was struggling, but he was still strong. His opponent was laughing gleefully and throwing spell after spell in his direction, demolishing any chance Flamel had of fighting back. Oh, that wasn't good…He'd definitely lose at that rate.

Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver an acidic comment to the alchemist but was stopped by another coughing fit, blood dripping from his lips onto the stone flow. Then, out of nowhere, Lestrade was beside him, holding him up. Funny, he could hardly feel Lestrade's strong grip on his shoulder at all. The older detective was staring at him in horror and shouting something panicked. His name, maybe?

It hardly mattered…He was just so tired…

Distantly, he noticed Cerberus hurtling down the hallway, thrown only to crash into the two fighters and knock them apart. The hound was hurt, long tears in his flesh marking his efforts in battle. What could have done that to him? Sherlock's mind couldn't come up with anything, even as he found himself laid out on the ground with Lestrade applying pressure to his neck.

The brunette turned his head to look down the hall, wanting to see what could have hurt Cerberus so. A figure was striding powerfully towards the group, muscles tensed and ready to spring. There was nothing that could stand in his way, like a dark God come to distribute his wrath.

Lestrade shouted something, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. His eyes were riveted on the figure, on John. His blogger had come. He was safe…Benedicta must have gotten to him in time…good.

Sherlock gave in to the exhaustion that plagued him, letting his eyes flutter shut. He'd just rest for a bit, everything would be okay with John there. He relaxed, breaths coming slower as his body shut down. His last thought was of the man who'd captured his heart without the genius even being aware.

And so Sherlock Holmes died in the arms of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He did not die chasing after a suspect in the streets, being reckless and selfish, as Donovan or Anderson may have predicted. Instead he died trying to save a friend, putting someone else's life above his own. It was only the tragedy and irony of life that it ended up being that same friend that killed him.

But for those who were left, there was no time to mourn. The death of Sherlock Holmes could not cause them distraction, though it caused them immeasurable pain. They had to find a way to stop the very man they had come to save, who seemed quite interested in ending them all. 

Translations:

"Well isn't this just cute? The great Nicholas Flamel working so hard to protect his precious _amis._ You really shouldn't bother, _ils vont tout simplement mourir de toute facon._ " –friends/they will all die anyway

"We shall see who dies this day, _voleur._ " –thief

"Enough words, _Alchimiste._ Let us end this. There is only enough room for one alchemic genius in this world and I do so hate competition." -Alchemist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, so, that's the final chapter, guys. I do have an epilogue that I will post probably tomorrow. I hope you all have enjoyed and thank you for sticking with me through this fic!


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tying up loose ends and giving the closure that is probably needed.

John stood on the roof of Saint Bart's, the hospital he'd founded, the place he'd met his best friend, the place he'd fallen in love. Guilt ate at his soul, defiling every piece of him. He felt dirty, disgusting. The blood that flowed through his veins, that kept him alive, was that of his best friend, the man he had come to love as he did no other. But it hadn't been given willingly, it had been taken, and Sherlock had paid for it with his life.

He hadn't been the only casualty that day either. The doctor's second victim had been the French vampire who had been foolish enough to hold him captive and starve him, though many of John's own allies had died as well. It pained John to think that he had killed those who were trying to help him, though it did not measure up to the pain of what he'd done to Sherlock. His thoughts turned, as they always seemed to now, on the events of three days prior.

Bill and Benedicta had returned from their battle in the dungeons, where the killer had set a trap for them, to find John in a full-blown Blood Rage. Working together, they'd managed to keep him distracted long enough for Shmuel to teleport him into Hell, where the Devil was better equipped to deal with him. The remaining forces had then been free to wipe out the last of the Frenchman's defenses and found Mordecai in one of the bedrooms, under the influence of the Eternal Sleep.

Instead of becoming weak, vampires deprived of blood grew terribly powerful. As the magic running through their bodies became less and less diluted, they would become more impossible to control. Some vampires would do this to themselves on purpose before entering a battle, but the costs were great. There were recorded cases of vampires deprived for such extended times that they were driven permanently insane. Shame colored John's shattered heart at the knowledge that he had not even recognized Sherlock as he tore into the other's neck, not that recognition would have been likely to stop him.

His mind flickered back to the night when their rag tag group had first confronted the Frenchman in the warehouse trap, what felt like an eternity ago. The villain had told John he was a monster…and it was true. The blonde raised his hands to stare at them, stained with blood he had long-since scrubbed away. Three days after the fact and he could still feel the thick, tangy blood of the man who had been his world coating his mouth.

The door to the roof creaked open and John didn't have to turn to know who it was. He could feel their presence beating within his very soul. Spawn were like that.

"Kristen."

"I felt it through the bond and came as quick as I could. Benedicta told me what happened…are you alright?"

"No…I cannot undo what has already been done." Kristen was one of the most level-headed of his spawn, though she was not the oldest. She knew better than to continue on with the topic as hand, choosing instead to remain silent until John spoke again. "Several of your brothers have already arrived. Magdalen arrived yesterday, but had to carry on."

"Another issue with the demon of hers?"

"It would appear."

John could tell Kristen was nodding, even though he couldn't see her.

"I will leave you alone then, Sire. If my bond is correct, I have a brother waiting to speak with you. I will go check on the others."

John nodded, staying silent as his spawn left the rooftop. She exchanged quiet words with her brother waiting inside the door before moving on and allowing his access to their Sire. His near-silent footsteps approached until the two were both standing just behind him.

"This is where you died the first time…where you jumped…I had never felt so useless as when you were standing on that ledge and, for all my power, I knew I could not get to you. I lost you that day, when Moriarty took you from me, and I lost you again in France. Only this time, I was the reason you were gone."

Sherlock scoffed as he stepped up beside the man, a faint current of magic running beneath his skin.

"Benedicta told me what happened, seems she's doing a lot of that lately. Really, though, you'd been held captive and tortured by a delusional French vampire, I think you could get a pass on acting a bit out of character."

John felt anger bubbling up with in. He didn't understand it. How could Sherlock just stand there like _nothing was wrong?_ How could he just go around like John hadn't tried to _kill_ him?

"You were _dead,_ Sherlock! I ripped your throat out and went on to slaughter others without a single thought! I never should have taken you to that club…I should have kept you out of this world…"

"Don't be an idiot, John. I got _myself_ into this world. If you hadn't gotten me into it then someone else would have and then I would likely _still_ be dead. At least this way it was a little less permanent."

"Permanent? _Permanent?!_ You're a _vampire_ now, Sherlock! It doesn't get much more permanent that that!"

John threw his hands up in the air with frustration and turned away, back towards London's skyline.

"Good thing you decided to make that Anti-Glamour potion using your own blood, then, wasn't it? Besides, it's not all bad. My new abilities and access will do great things for my Work. Really, I should be thanking you."

John dragged a hand over his face, unable to handle the situation presented to him. He'd always viewed his vampiric nature as a curse despite the ability it gave him to help others. These days made it easier, but John would never be able to forget the centuries where surviving meant killing humans for food. Now, to have inflicted that curse upon the man he cared about more than any other…

"I was supposed to protect you…"

It seemed that Sherlock had no answer for that and the silence stretched between them for several minutes. John eventually turned back to stand beside his best friend, the two overlooking the city they loved. They stood there for some time longer before Sherlock finally found his voice.

"The second night you knew me, you raced across London and shot a man to save my life. Since then, you have jumped into countless dangerous situations," Sherlock actually could and _had_ counted them, but that was hardly the point, "with hardly a thought to your own safety. You have always had my back, from the moment we met."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock shushed him. He wasn't done yet.

"You are unlike any person I have ever met. You waited three years for me to return when you couldn't even be sure I was alive. You are my best friend, John Watson, and more precious to me than anyone I have ever known." John watched as Sherlock took a deep breath and appeared to steady himself. "When we were in Hell, I had to swear an oath to Udi in order to secure his help. I swore to him that I would tell you how I felt, once we got you back. I see now, though, that I would have done it anyway."

The two turned to face each other and John's heart pounded like a drum within his chest, feeling as though it could burst at any second. Sherlock's face bore nothing but seriousness.

"Lord Doctor John von Hamish, Duke-grandee of Alba of Spain, Marquis of Aguilar de Campoo, Count of Lemos, Infante de Espana, Knight of the Round Table, Freiherrlich Uradel, Alter Adel, The Forgotten's Champion, Knight of the Cross, Founder of the Crusified, The Blood Healer, Boyar, The Much Honored Champion of the Court of Lord Lyon King of Arms, Legion's Heir, Blogger of Sherlock Holmes, Sysselmann to the High King of Norway, Huskarl of the Royal Guard, Wrangler of New Scotland Yard, Earl of Undershaw, First Hertug to King Hakon Magnusson, Founder of Saint Bart's Medical Hospital, Courtship of Brahesminde, Conjurer of Milk, Captain of Belmonte duPrie, Greatest Tea-Maker in all of the United Kingdom, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Grandmaster of Haidong Kumdo and Bartistu, Uniter of Packs, Keeper of the Cardinal Sins, Head Councilman of The Order of The Ud de I, Co-Author of the Tome of Laws, First Enforcer, Teacher of Kells, Sire of The Holy Blood, once-Gatekeeper to the Hells, and Champion of All…I love you and I will never for a moment regret that I now may do so for all eternity."

John gaped as him, struggling to find his voice.

"You…remembered all of that? Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, this is you we're talking about."

Sherlock's face morphed into the emotionless mask he so often wore when encountering feelings that he didn't wish for others to see. John almost kicked himself when his mind caught up with his mouth.

"No. I'm sorry. I am _such_ an idiot. I didn't mean that." He smiled apologetically before turning serious once more. "What I meant to say was…I love you, too."

He reached out with one hand to brush the tips of his fingers lightly over the detective's high cheekbones, savoring the shocked look on the other's face. Sliding his fingers into curly, dark hair, John pulled the other down until their faces were so close that their breath mingled. The blonde's eyes flickered from Sherlock's own, down to his lips, and back.

Their first kiss was tentative, neither quiet believing that what they were doing was real. It wasn't long before Sherlock had his long, elegant fingers clutching the front of John's sweater and there was hardly a breath of air between them. Lips moved against one another in a dance of passion and life, forming a release for the pent up sexual tension of an entire relationship.

Finally breaking apart, the two rested their foreheads together, both smiling like idiots. John stroked a thumb over Sherlock's cheek and the other leaned into the pleasant touch.

"Come on, let's go home."

It was surprisingly easy for them to settle back into life at 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had been worried sick about them, seeing as how they'd disappeared for a week with no warning, but she was glad to have them back. Sherlock practiced his new vampiric abilities and was soon using them in ways far more advanced than he should have been able to.

But, John supposed, that was always the case with Sherlock.

Flamel had shown up the day after they had returned home, bringing with him the paperwork for John to sign in order to make their divorce final. He'd been very firm about not giving the ring back, though. Even as he had congratulated them, and meant it, the pain had been clear in his eyes. Still, he'd eagerly agreed to spend time with Sherlock to talk about Alchemy and it's variety of applications.

Sherlock had cajoled Mycroft into providing a legitimate excuse to the Yard as to Lestrade's absence. It worked out well because, just the day previously, the elder Holmes had been informed of his clearance to learn about the supernatural world. The younger had great fun in lording over him that fact that Sherlock had not only known first but was now also a part of it. Apparently, the young detective had no problems with his brother playing in his sandbox as long as his curly, black mop was still on top. The teasing had been cut short however, by a call to Mycroft's phone from a blocked number. Sherlock had grinned wolfishly at the blush that dusted his brother's cheeks.

Two weeks after the whole thing was over found the boys sitting in their flat, drinking tea and enjoying each other's company. Their bond of Sire and Spawn allowed each of them to feel the other's emotions and John savored the ability to bask in the glow of his flat mate's affection. Sherlock had spent the morning practicing his new-found abilities and had decided the afternoon should be spent with their lips pressed together…among other things. Their relaxing day, however, was cut short by the sound of a motorcycle outside.

Sherlock instantly sat up straight and John chuckled to himself as he watched the other listen as Mrs. Hudson greeted their visitor. The sound of heels on the steps indicated a woman and soon Benedicta was stepping through the doorway of their flat, clad in what appeared to be a black, leather skirt-suit. She greeted them warmly.

"John, Sherlock, you both look well."

The blonde raised a mug to her in agreement, finding himself very content in his days. She sat in a proffered seat, smoothing down an imaginary crease in her skirt. Sherlock smirked in her direction.

"I see you and Bill are getting on, then, judging by the fact that you're riding his bike. Otherwise occupied, is he?"

"Fulfilling his end of his trade with Charon. Apparently your brother is very interesting indeed…I am here on business, however."

John instantly sat up straight. For Benedicta, business rarely mixed with pleasure.

"What happened?"

"There's been a problem at the club. I'd appreciate a second pair of eyes to take a look."

John nodded readily and set his mug of tea to the side.

"Of course. What can I do for you?"

"Actually…I meant more along the lines of him." She inclined her head towards Sherlock. "It looks like immortality has opened quite a few doors for you, Mr. Holmes, or should I say the World's Only Consulting Vampire? If this goes well, I have a couple of clients I'd like to send your way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story, and special thanks in particular to those who have commented and shared their thoughts! I truly do appreciate it! I was happy to be able to share in this experience with you all.
> 
> At current, I have nothing more written for this series, but I do have a number of other ideas for it. If people are interested, let me know and that will bump them up a bit more on my priority list. I can give no guarantees about timing, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that wasn't too bad! Let me know what you thought! I guarantee I'll reply to anyone who takes the time to comment. Your feedback is valuable to me! And remember, only YOU can bring on the next chapter early!


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